CRIMSON DAWN: The Imperium Comes To 1984
by Spartan-168-Django
Summary: It seemed like just another routine military operation for the Imperium: their forces were in the process of landing and retaking a rebellious planet. But when a Warp anomaly strikes, the fighting men and women of the Imperium suddenly find themselves transported across time and space to a new world: Holy Terra itself, but at a far earlier time. This is 1984.
1. This Is Not A Love Song

****Chapter I:****

 ** **THIS IS NOT A LOVE SONG****

 **Orbit over Terra Nova, Terra Nova System,**  
 **Subsector Orwellia, Segmentum Tempestus.**  
 **Imperial Date:** **3778084.M42**

Brother Captain Raphael Acastus of the Crimson Fists, Master Of Siege, 9th Company, frowned as he viewed the battle unfold across the auspex. Terra Nova, a Class-M Civilized World, lay gleaming blue and green far below them, a deceptively beautiful pearl amidst the blackness of space, but he and his brothers knew the truth of what wretched heresies were lurking down on that rock.

Before the planetary governor had broken off from the Imperium, this world was known to have a population of around a billion souls. It was impossible to know as yet how much this figure may have changed over the last few months of bitter fighting between the traitor governor's cohorts and the loyalist forces still entrenched on the world. Either way, strong resistance was still to be expected. This was a world that still could be saved from straying any further down the path of apostasy and brought back into the folds of the Imperium... once it had been adequately purged.

"Brother-Captain!" called out a voice. It was Brother Kosmatos, of the 2nd Assault Marine Squad under Acastus' command. He continued: "The rebel's planetary defenses have been neutralized. Their pathetic little fleet has been put to flight!"

Acastus thanked the Sergeant for the report, though he wondered how necessary it was to inform him in person, seeing as the details were showing up now on the auspex. The few ships that remained of the traitors' would-be defense fleet were either in the process of being boarded or destroyed, or else in full retreat from the might of the Imperium, perhaps to rally on the other side of the system, or else flee elsewhere, forsaking the rebel governor just as they had forsaken the Emperor before him. The task of mopping up these stragglers was left to the Imperial Navy; the Fists' own chapter fleet was to be held in reserve.

When the news had come of Terra Nova's rebellion, the Inquisition and the Administratum had agreed to rally whatever forces were immediately available in the Sector. As it just so happened, the Ninth Company along with a couple others of the Fists were just wrapping up a Daemonhunt in the Mandragoran when the astropathic request came in. Acastus had been firmly against it, a waste of the company's time when there were so many other forces in the vicinity already en route, but he had been overruled by Brother Captains Syphro and Kadena.

The Fists were being joined here today by a company from their cousin chapter, the Templars, and one from the Salamanders, an Order of the Sororitas, as well as whatever disparate detachments of the Astra Militarum could be rallied in the immediate vicinity. All in all, a tad excessive for most operations of this level, but the Mechanicum had been adamant in their petition that the Terra Nova rebellion be quelled as expeditiously as possible with whatever reserve forces were available in this subsector, before it inevitably spilled over and threatened their nearby Forge World and Titan manufactorum on Bakka.

Indeed, these force represented but a mere preliminary strike force meant to secure landing zones across the planet and decapitate the rebel government. The rest of the fighting would be left to the additional Guard units making up the second and third waves, still as yet en route. Captain Acastus was usually loathe to be fighting alongside them, but alas the Imperium was rarely if ever in such a position as to decide when and how they would fight their battles.

Returning his attention to the auspex, he noted that the Templars were already deploying, several drop pods shooting forth from their barge _Hammerhand_. Castellan Falkhard had apparently decided not to wait any further, no doubt eager as he was to already get on with cleansing this world's surface of apostasy. Further afield, the green/grey hulk of the Salamanders' _Pyre Of Glory_ was slowly maneuvering into place, ready to disgorge its own payload. Very well, there was no reason that the Fists too delay any longer.

"Begin the landings," barked Acastus, "all battle brothers to their pods at once!"

* * *

 **Orbit over Terra Nova, Terra Nova System,**  
 **Subsector Orwellia, Segmentum Tempestus.**

The cramped passenger compartment shook and shuddered violently as the Valkyrie hurtled down towards the planet surface.

Capt. Hannibal Steele, Harakoni Warhawks, clutched his Lasgun tightly against his carapaced chest, and muttered a quick prayer to the Emperor. By now, Steele had served just over 10 years in the Hawks, had performed over three dozen combat drops, and so this one should have been just another task as any other. But something definitely didn't feel right about this drop. Serving in the Hawks this long, one comes to trust their gut instinct, and he couldn't shake the feeling that whatever was going down on that world was unlike anything he'd ever faced before. The rebel fleet had just melted away completely before the might of the Imperial Navy, but something told him that the biggest surprise was being saved for once they were groundside.

He looked left, and he looked right. Somehow, whatever he was feeling must have been shared by the rest of his squad. Certainly enough that Commissar Welker suddenly felt the need to launch into another one of his "motivational speeches"...

"Listen up!" barked Welker, waving his powersword in the air, "we are going in with the first wave! Means more rebel scum for us to kill! Our target is a secret weapon cache; you smash this entire area, kill anything that moves, and secure these weapons for the Emperor! Is that understood?!"

"SIR, YES SIR!" boomed all the men at once.

Welker smiled and was about to go on, when suddenly, the entire shuttle shuddered again, more violently this time. The commissar must've had his seatbelt only loosely fastened, or maybe it was his imposing height, or just the section of the cabin he was sitting in (and probably the great height of his headgear), but he ended up bouncing up from his seat and banging his head on the bulkhead above him, pushing his cap down over his eyes.

The Commissar probably meant to swear loudly, but then probably decided not to invoke His Holiness The God Emperor's name in vain, and so what ended up coming out of his mouth was unintelligible gibberish. Captain Steele noticed several of the men visibly fight their gut reaction to burst out laughing, lest one of them land up with a bolt in the brain. Steele knew he should probably scold the men for their ill discipline, but to be fair, Welker had probably brought this upon himself. In any case, it was good to see his squadmates holding onto their morale.

"Hang on tight!" boomed the voice of their pilot, Lt. Gallard, over the intercom, "Warp anomaly ahead! Taking evasive actions!"

Steele closed his eyes as the cabin began to shake even more violently than before. His mind flooded with images of his home on Harakon, the family he left behind, the grav-glider he used to fly as a boy and the festival they held every year. He then thought of the men and women he had trained with, of his first ever combat drop, or the operation on Cadia. No. This drop was not going to be his last. He tried to instead focus on the image of the Aquila, and prayed as hard as he could. If the Emperor willed it, he was going to make it through this day. He would worry about tomorrow when it came.

* * *

 **Somewhere In The Warp...**

The entity in the Warp watched with growing amusement and eager anticipation as the petty mortals departed their fleet and made their way to the planet surface.

If it was being entirely honest to itself (not that this was particularly likely at all, given its penchant for deception), it had no real interest in this world at all; to it, this was just another tiny and insignificant rock among millions of others in this vast and unforgiving universe. No, the petty little Imperium could keep this worthless planet for all it cared; its real interest was in laying the kind of trap that would provoke them into exactly the kind of reaction it now beheld.

 _Let's see here_ , thought the entity to itself, _yes. Ah, perfect_. Just the right amount of force - too little and they would be quickly defeated wherever they would be going. Too many, and they would conquer with far too much ease. But just the right amount, and things would certainly be... _interesting_.

And with that, the entity summoned upon whatever energies it could, and set to work crafting its spell - on one hand, it could draw upon this entire galaxy and even a little beyond as its source of power. On the other hand, it had never really before attempted a feat on the scale that it now intended to - manipulation of time and space was but a regular and mundane task for an entity of its level, but this was something entirely new and untried before. Something that, it realized, could shake the very core of this universe... and possibly others as well. But it decided to go ahead with it anyway because... why not?

Whatever happened, the entity cared little for detail or outcome, only that its one and only desire be satisfied, and that was, of course, _change_. And so, with a devious and ever-scheming mind far greater than any other being, even those of its own realm, could ever truly comprehend, it set about its plans into action...

* * *

 **391km above the ground.**

" _Challenger_ , this is Houston. Sullivan, what's your status?" The voice was garbled slightly and hissed with static, as was usual.

"Houston, this is Sullivan," she replied, "condition normal. Replacing battery modules A1 and C." Her voice was calm and collected, but deep down, Kate could barely contain her excitement. Today, she would be making history: only the second woman ever to do EVA, and America's first - she would have been the first had the Reds not beaten them to it that summer. But regardless, today was a moment to go down in the history books - which was only more reason that she make good of herself and not mess up.

Kate took a deep breathe and looked away from her task, just for a moment. Even in low gravity, the suit felt incredibly heavy and bulky, her head movement severely restricted, and her vision limited even further by the helmet visor. But what she was able to glimpse was still breathtaking - even more so than when viewed from inside the orbiter. The vast blue and cloud-filled expanse of Earth dominated her field of vision. To her other side, _Challenger_ stood against the infinite blackness of the void, resolute and defiant, like a warrior of old times. Only a thin lifeline connected her to the orbiter, and out here, the smallest mistake was a sure death sentence.

She frowned. Off in the distance, there was a small flash of light. And then another, followed by what looked like... purple lightning? Out here in space? She squeezed her eyes shut and then opened them again; she must have been seeing things. No. She was right: something had now appeared - it looked like a hole of some kind, like an... _eye_? Yes, like an eye had just opened up in space, though how large and how far away, she couldn't tell.

"Sullivan!" barked the voice of Robert, their mission commander, "status report?"

"This is Sullivan here," she began, shaking when she realized that the eye was still there. "Uh, is someone seeing this?"

"Excuse me?" replied Robert, "please explain."

"This is Ride here," came a different voice, "I see it too. Commander, we have an anomaly in Sector 47, Five o' clock!"

"Ride, are you sure? I've got nothing on radar..."

"I'm telling you, I see it! Take a look, starboard side!"

"Oh my god..."

"Are you seeing this?"

"Holy..."

" _Challenger_ , this is Houston. What's the meaning of this? Status report."

"Uh... Houston," began Commander Robert, "we've got a visual on... on some..." he paused. "Houston, we have a problem."

* * *

 ** **Serpukhov-15 Satellite Ground Station,****  
 **Near Kurilovo, Kaluga Oblast,**  
 **Russian S.F.S.R., Union Of Soviet Socialist Republics.**

***CTAPT***

 ** ***ПYCK*****

 ** ***CTAPT*****

 ** ***ПYCK*****

The dreaded words flashed across the main screen of the control room. Red warning lights had started flashing and alarm klaxons were going off. Lieutenant-Colonel Petrov snapped to attention and stood up from his workstation and looked around. Everyone else in the command center, like he, was taken completely by surprise, but to their credit, had leapt to action, just as their training had demanded of them.

"What's going on?" barked Petrov, "what is the meaning of this?"

"Comrade _Podpolkovnik_!" replied Lieutenant Vasiliev, speaking up from his workstation several places down to the right of Petrov's. "We have unidentified object inbound!" True to his training, the lieutenant began to read from his display, but it was clear he was completely shocked and shaking from what he saw. "Altitude: 300km and dropping! Target coordinates based on trajectory: 55.7558N, 37.6173E... it's heading for Moscow!"

Petrov gulped. An object... no, a _cluster of objects_ was plummeting towards Moscow from the edge of space. There were not many things he could imagine that would fit that description, other than the obvious. " _Impossible_ ," he muttered, "why... no, we would have detected the launches by now."

"This is just ground radar; nothing from _Oko_ ," spoke up Junior-Lieutenant Dovzhenko, stationed at Petrov's left. He did a better job than Vasiliev at concealing his shock - perhaps because he trusted in their satellite early detection protocols to be pretty sure it couldn't possibly be a surprise attack. But then if it wasn't, what else could it be? Or, worse yet, what if the system was wrong? It wasn't entirely flawless...

Petrov bit his lip as he watched the large world map that covered one of the walls of the bunker. Several small lights were blinking right over Moscow's location. The unidentified objects - whatever they were - were hurtling through the atmosphere towards the city. They would have, at most, a minute or so before impact and...

"Second unidentified object detected!" spoke up Vasiliev.

All eyes turned to the big map, where sure enough another group of lights were now blinking. Not one but several. Like a cluster of warheads from a single MIRV. Petrov gulped. It was over Leningrad. He was sweating now. Something was very wrong. Could this be a drill?

"Third unidentified object detected!" said Vasiliev. He was half-shouting now, his hands shaking visibly. This time, the blinking light on the world map appeared... just over the Urals, near Chelyabinsk.

Petrov turned to face Dovzhenko; the Junior-Lieutenant didn't need to be spoken to to know what his superior wanted. "Comrade!" he spoke, "still no confirmation of any launches."

Flight time was about 15 minutes, even for the Pershing-2s stationed in West Germany, so they would have been detected by now. Petrov thought this over in his head. What reason would the Americans have to attack now? And why only three? Surely, yes, but then... what else could they possibly be? Meteors? Like the Tunguska comet? Then why were they aimed almost precisely at three major population centers?

"We have impact!" shouted Vasiliev. Petrov grabbed his desk, as if expecting the shockwave to roll over their bunker any second now. For a few seconds, silence descended upon everyone gathered in the control room. Strange - if it was indeed an attack, they would have felt the shockwave by now.

Petrov turned to one of the officers manning the station on the level below him and commanded that they give him a direct phone line to the surface. He was immensely relieved that it wasn't what they had initially thought it to be, but he also had the uneasy feeling that whatever was going on, this was only the beginning.

* * *

 **Santa Monica Beach,**  
 **West of Los Angeles, State of California.**

Even in autumn, the beaches were crowded by mid-morning, thousands of people: teenage boys were skateboarding along the boardwalk. Young women lay sprawled out on deck-chairs, taking in the sun. Little children were paddling in the surf or building sand-castles on land. Vendors, mostly Hispanic, were going about, selling t-shirts, suntan lotion, ice-cold Coca-Colas or ice-cream. That's when the first impact was felt.

Only a few looked up and saw the brilliant streak of light, careening through the atmosphere, glowing red-hot from reentry. In mere seconds, it came down and landed right in the most crowded part in the center of the beach. At least a couple dozen were killed immediately in the impact. Screams filled the air, and panicked beachgoers ran for their lives. A few remained where they stood or lay, glued to the spot partly out of curiosity and perhaps mostly out of fear.

A large, six-sided, roughly conical metal object now laid in the middle of the beach, half-embedded in the sand. The dark blue-painted metallic hull contrasted sharply with the blackened, smoldering sand and mangled bodies that lay around it. Several observers would note a large red fist painted on the side of the object.

And then, that's when all six sides of the cylinder slammed open, and the occupants emerged - a strange humanoid figure, towering above everyone else at eight, maybe nine feet in height, encased entirely in metal armor, eyes glowing fiercely, a glowing blade in his hand. Every step he took upon the ground was plodding and heavy, felt by everyone in the immediate area. And he was not alone.

What were they? Aliens? Communists? Demons from Hell? That was probably the very last thought to go through the minds of many on the beach that day - some stayed rooted to where they stood, frozen in terror. Everyone else turned to run, but many did not make it very far.

* * *

 **Landing Zone Rho-1136**  
 **Alpha-Quadrant, Northern Hemisphere,**  
 **Terra Nova, Terra Nova System.**

Clearing the landing zone of any and all potential hostiles proved to be an almost insultingly easy task. Once they had sent a clear message to the natives, the rest had cleared out in a rush. Captain Acastus could keep on going, but he decided to take a moment to stop and get a bearing on their location.

He looked around him. This was very strange indeed. Their assigned target area was a large inland hilly area just north of Terra Nova's largest spaceport. Instead, they had found themselves standing upon a wide, sandy beach, blue ocean to the west of them. To the east lay a boardwalk and a small town of mostly low buildings but a few higher-rising square towers among them; further east he could glimpse a cluster of much taller glass towers reaching up to the sky, but nothing quite like the hive city they were expecting.

Sergeant Oriole and his pod had made planetfall about a few hundred yards west of them, somewhere in the town - Acastus could tell their position from the smoke now rising and the distant screams of the natives. Another two pods, carrying the assault marine squads of Brothers Sicario and Aguilo, had landed several miles to the east of them, somewhere right among those distant towers.

Acastus grimaced; the deployment was off from what they had planned. Perhaps the Warp energies they had encountered on their path down had something to do with throwing them off course. Acastus did not like the sound of this at all, for it only further confirmed his suspicions over just what they would be facing on this world. But thus far, thankfully, they had yet to encounter any meaningful resistance from the rebels - only a few of them in the landing area were found to be armed, and these weapons were tiny and pathetic; indeed, calling their stubguns "weapons" at all was being charitable.

All around him lay the broken bodies of dozens of the natives, cut down as they tried to flee the Emperor's Angels' righteous judgment. Civilian casualties were expected to be incredibly high (as was normal in any military operation), but considered acceptable, given the steep price otherwise paid for not stamping out whatever heresy and corruption was festering among them. And though it was now clear to him that they did not land where they had originally intended to, and did not find any of the rebel governor's forces hidden among the common citizenry, Acastus still almost wanted to spit out of hatred and spite for them - wretched creatures all of them, men and women, barely dressed in the barest of clothing.

Through the holographic visor of his helmet, his eyes focused on the broken body of one of the natives nearest him: a young woman, must have been twenty years of age, a hole burnt clean through her chest where one of the brothers had drove his powersword through her. Her clothing was most bizarre: skintight leggings of a bright florescent pink, a short skirt and top of florescent blue, tight and cut in a rather immodest way. Her footwear came in the most garish assortment of neon colors imaginable, and her hair was bleached and styled in a most unnatural manner. Acastus snorted in disgust. This beach was a pleasure ground that dripped in all forms of excess and immodesty. And given what they knew about the traitor governor's allegiances, there was good cause to suspect that the Prince Of Pleasure's influence might be afoot.

He looked up. Up ahead, one of the natives' ground vehicles was seen - a boxy groundcar but painted in black and white, a red and blue light flashing on its roof, and upon its doors were written out the letters: "L.A.P.D." The vehicle's two former occupants - or what was left of them - could now be seen spread out across the sand, their blue uniforms torn to shreds, when they had dared to shoot back at the Emperor's Angels.

He noticed one of his battle brothers stomping towards him. It was Brother-Adept Tektus, the Company's Techmarine, the dark blue of his armor punctuated by Mechanicum red, his four servo-arms protruding from his back and giving him the appearance of a mechanical human spider. Each of his four servos was clutching a different object.

"Any progress on contacting the fleet, Brother-Adept?" inquired Acastus as he approached. "And what is the meaning of those items you are carrying?"

"I've been gathering some of the native's devices for study," replied the techmarine, his voice sounding flat and synthesized, thanks in no small part to the Adeptus Mechanicus' many "improvements". Tektus' arms dropped the four trinkets they carried at Acastus' feet. "Primitive, yes, but curious all the same."

Captain Acastus took a good look at the collection of objects that Tektus had lain upon the sand. The first was but a simple piece of ovular wood, painted in pink and green and mounted on four small wheels - yet another form of transportation used by the locals.

The second was one of their pathetic "weapons", a slug-throwing semi-automatic pistol. Like other Imperial stubguns in service across the galaxy, it was no doubt effective against unarmored targets, but of course of no use whatsoever against power armor. From the looks of this particular one, this pistol-in-name-only would have trouble penetrating even the flak armor of the Astra Militarum's lowliest conscripts. Weak! It was clear these weapons must have been more for policing the native population than for military combat.

The third item was a small, blue, boxlike device, connected by a wire to a set of headphones like those used by Imperial pilots. Inscribed upon its surface was lettering arranged to form the word "SONY", though to whom that name was referring to, Acastus knew not. It might be a vox caster of some kind, no doubt used by the natives to communicate with one another, to coordinate their resistance against the Imperium. Curious indeed.

The fourth and final device was much larger, and silver in color, but it was also boxlike in shape. A row of buttons ran across the center of it, and there were two speakers on either side of it. It too had "SONY" inscribed along the front of it. It was this device that Tektus could be seen fiddling with.

"And what in the Emperor's Name are you doing, Brother-Adept?" asked Acastus.

"I am attempting to commune with this machine spirit," replied the Techmarine, flatly, "hmmmm, it appears to be completely lacking in one, though I suspect it is a musical entertainment device."

At that moment, the machine came to life with a shrill and agonized cry as it blurted out: _"THISISNOTALUVSONG!"_ Tektus leaned in closer, somewhat amused by this. The machine continued droning: _"THISISNOTALUVSONG! THISISNOTTALUVSONG! THISISNOTALUVSONG! THISISNOTALUVSONG! THISISNOTALUVSONG!"_ Its shrill cries were accompanied by the beating of drums and the strumming of what sounded like an electro-lute of some kind.

Acastus, however, was having none of this. Whether he was irked more by the music itself, or by Tektus' seeming infatuation, he immediately reached for his power sword, fired it up, and brought it down on the offending device, smashing it into pieces. Wiring and shards of plastic flew everywhere.

"Was that necessary, brother?" hissed Tektus, "I think I was just beginning to understand it."

"You are wasting time with this infernal machine!" snapped Acastus. "Yours, and mine too, Brother. Look around you! We are most definitely not where we were intended to be. Does something not behoove you about this situation?"

"Perhaps," replied Tektus, "but, if I may, I am fluent in over six million forms of communication. I believe the machine was crooning in an old tongue not heard since the Dark Age Of Technology itself; I believe it was trying to say something along the lines of _this is not a love song_."

"Brother, perhaps we can focus on sating the Mechanicum's curiosities once we have secured this region," scolded Acastus, "stay focused on contacting the fleet. I haven't heard from them since we entered the atmosphere."

"Brother-Captain, I have already checked our vox casters," replied Tektus, "their machine spirits are in order, no corruption that I can discern. If we are unable to contact the fleet, well, there must be something else at work here. I suggest we rejoin Oriole and Sicario first and see if their casters are having similar difficulties."

Acastus frowned and strode off, heading in the direction of the nearby buildings. The distant sound of gunfire and explosions could still be heard, though they had died down somewhat as the squad slowly cleared and secured this landing zone. Still, though, he had to wonder to himself: _where in the Emperor's Sacred Name are we?_


	2. It's Raining Men

To all readers: thank you to everyone who has expressed their enthusiasm and support for this new story, and for all the positive feedback I have received so far. For those of you have been following my other story, _Event Horizon_ , I am sorry to say that I've been having problems with the story, for all kinds of reasons, and so I've decided to put that series on hiatus for now. In the mean time, hope that _Crimson Dawn_ proves to be a fresh start and enjoyable read.

I'm also aware that some of you may have been surprised and been expecting George Orwell's _1984_. That was my first idea too. But then I gave it some thought and figured that real life 1984 is (at least to me) just so much more interesting, with bigger hair and better music too. I'll admit I kept the title though to try and keep it vague and surprise readers. So, without further adieu, onwards!

* * *

 **Chapter II:**

 **IT'S RAINING MEN**

 **Twin Hills High School, Pine Valley,**  
 **State Of California, USA.**

"...broadly speaking, the Third Crusade was a European response to the emergence of a new Islamic power, one neither Turkish nor Abbaysid, but... anyone? Anyone?"

When no answer was forthcoming, the teacher decided to answer his own question: "The Kurdish-born Egyptian warlord _Al-Malik an-Nasir Salah ad-Din Yusuf ibn Ayyub_ , better known here in the West by the name... anyone? Anyone?" Again, no answer was forthcoming. " _Saladin_. Having consolidated his power in Egypt, Saladin eventually expanded into Damascus and... anyone? Anyone? _Jerusalem_ , which he was able to finally take in October of 1187, after first winning a major upset victory at the Battle Of Hattin where he routed the forces of the Kingdom Of Jerusalem and the... anyone? Anyone? _The Knights Templar and Hospitaller_."

Professor Stein drolled on and on and on. Seated at his desk, Marty yawned and continued his battle against boredom. He never ceased to be amazed at Professor Stein's ability to make even interesting and cool stuff sound flat and completely devoid of life. Cameron was seated in the desk immediately to the right of Marty, and he seemed to be much more honest in his feelings towards morning history class: Cam's head was on his desk, his eyes wide closed but mouth wide open, a dribble of spit slowly snaking its way across the surface.

Stein continued: "...the loss of Jerusalem led the Pope, who was... anyone? Anyone? _Gregory VIII_ , to call a new crusade. Three of the most important kings of Europe answered the call, these being... anyone? Anyone? _Philip II_ of France, _Richard The Lionheart_ of England, and the Holy Roman Emperor _Friedrich Barbarossa_ , although the latter of these drowned in a river while still on his way marching through Anatolia, the exact cause and circumstances of which remains unknown to this day..."

Marty turned to his left. Jennifer was seated two desks away. She looked at him, and smiled. Marty smiled back. Seated between them was Cindy, who was just chomping loudly on some bubblegum, looking completely detached with anything going on around her. When Jenny passed a little notecard to her, Cindy passed it along to Marty automatically, like she was a robot or something. Marty chuckled as he opened it. It was a little doodle of a stick figure knight and princess riding together on a stick-figure horse, which he imagined was supposed to represent him and Jenny together.

He looked up at the front of the class; among the pictures taped up on the blackboard was a white cross on a black background. Marty didn't know nor care if this was the symbol of the Knights Templar or Saint John or the frikkin' Knights Who Say "Nee!", but it looked pretty cool. He pulled out a pencil and began adding this symbol to Jenny's little doodle.

All the while, Professor continued drawling on about the Third Crusade... or was it the Fourth already? Marty couldn't really tell nor did he care, it was all the same to him, all about some aristocratic old fucks in Europe wanting more land, glory, wealth, whatever. The entire high school history class could probably be reduced down to one sentence: Humans never really change at all.

"...unable to secure passage to the Holy Land and excommunicated from the Church, the Crusaders accepted an offer by... anyone? Anyone? _Alexios IV Angelos_ , a Byzantine prince seeking to restore his deposed father on the throne. While they initially succeeded and Angelos himself was able to claim the throne, he was unable to raise the funds he had promised the Crusaders. That, and tensions between the Catholic Crusaders and the Orthodox Greek citizenry of Constantinople eventually boiled into violence and rioting, with Alexios IV himself being deposed by his own courtier who was... anyone? Anyone? _Alexios Doukas,_ more commonly known as _Mourtzouphlos_ , who seized the throne and crowned himself Alexios V. And then the Crusaders, stuck in Constantinople with no money and caught up in all these courtly politics decided to... to do what? Anyone? Anyone? _Sack and pillage the largest city in all of Christendom_ , at least at that time..."

 _Great. So instead of killing Muslims, they ended up killing other_ _Christians_ , thought Marty, _wonderful_. Could Prof not have said all of this in _one sentence_? Honestly, Marty would probably have made better use of this time honing his shredding skills in his garage, or maybe hanging out with the Doc. Now there was someone Marty could learn a thing or two from. Doc knew how to make education fun and exciting, could actually teach him useful skills. Heck, why didn't school ever teach them actual real life stuff, you know, like how to skin a rabbit, or lead a horse to water _and_ make it drink.

"...ultimately, very few of the Crusaders who participated in the Fourth Crusade ever made it to the Holy Land, although they did succeed in inflicting a severe blow on the power of Constantinople from which the city never really recovered, thus paving the way for... anyone? Anyone? _The city's fall to the Ottoman Turks in 1453_. In retrospect, I suppose you could say that the whole Fourth Crusade was rather... anyone? Anyone? _Byzantine_. Heh. Heh. Heh."

 _Oh God_ , thought Marty. If not for the fact that most of his classmates weren't paying attention, he probably would have heard way more groans from his peers. If the professor was trying to be funny, he was probably making things even worse. What Marty wouldn't give for a break right now from this droll...

There was a whistling sound, almost like a bomb dropping from a plane. At first, Professor Stein tried to ignore it and continue droning on about whatever.

And then, all of a sudden, there was a great _**CRASH**_ , and the entire building shook. The lights flickered, the room darkened for a moment, and the windows, desks, and chalkboard all rattled. Out in the hallway, the lockers clattered loudly. The professor grabbed onto his desk with both hands to steady himself. A small chunk of plaster broke off from the ceiling and landed right on Cam's head. All of the window panes cracked, though none actually shattered. Everyone in the classroom screamed or cried out.

"Jenny! Earthquake!" shouted Marty, and he quickly slipped off his chair and curled up in fetal position under his desk. He looked around him and saw at least half the class doing the same, the other half remaining in their seats as they were, probably out of surprise.

The shaking lasted only a couple seconds. Whatever it was, it wasn't an earthquake.

For a moment, the classroom fell silent, though Marty could hear screaming through the walls coming from the other classrooms around them, as well as several car alarms going off in the school parking lot. Professor Stein pulled himself back up to his feet, straightened his glasses and his tie, and looked around. He paused as he looked out the windows and saw something. Marty got back to his feet and also tried to see what was going on.

A massive metal cylinder now stood planted into the ground right outside in the baseball field, surrounded by a fresh impact crater. It was black, and upon its side was painted, big and clear for all to see, was a big white cross, exactly like the one Prof had drawn up on the chalkboard just moments earlier.

And then there was a dull metallic _**THUD**_ , and the side of the cylinder facing them opened and slammed down to the ground, and from within emerged a towering human figure, easily seven, maybe eight or nine feet tall, eyes glowing red. It looked like some freaky cross between a medieval knight, Darth Vader, and a robot from one of those Saturday morning Japanimation cartoons. And it was not alone. Marty knew right away this was bad news.

"GET OUTTA HERE!" he cried, grabbing his skateboard from under his chair, "EVERYONE GET THE HELL OUTTA HERE NOW!" With his free hand, he took Jennifer by the hand, and bolted for the door.

"Now wait just a minute here," began the Professor, "everyone, please file in a neat and orderly..." Before he could continue any further, there was a gunshot, the window shattered, and the teacher's chest exploded in a shower of gore and tatters of his tweed suit, as if it whatever had hit him was less a bullet and more like a frikkin' _live g_ _renade_. Blood and body bits splattered everywhere; the chalkboard at the front of the classroom turned from black to a deep red.

By then, Marty and Jenny were already in the hallway, running for their lives.

* * *

 **NORAD  
Cheyenne Mountain, near Colorado Springs,  
State Of Colorado, USA.**

"Jesus Christ!" muttered General Berenger, as yet another point of light began flashing, this time somewhere east of the Bay Area. Dallas, Miami, Los Angeles, one somewhere in the Dakotas, another somewhere around Chesapeake Bay... and this wasn't counting the couple dozen other flashing lights going on elsewhere around the globe. The giant computer map that covered one wall of the command center was lighting up like a fucking Christmas Tree.

"Sir!" spoke up Lt. Phelps, "as far as we can tell, it's not a nuclear attack. We haven't detected any EMPs, seismic disturbances, radiation, anything of the like. No launches showing up either on satellites or on ground radar. New York, D.C., Chicago, Denver, Seattle, Philly... they all seem fine."

"Sir!" added another Lieutenant, seated at the workstation three places down from Phelps, "latest report is that these objects are some kind of metallic cylinders used for transportation and deployment of... something."

"What?" barked Berenger, "and from who? What is this, a damned _alien invasion_?"

"We don't know, but it's pretty clear now it ain't the Reds," replied Capt. Madsen, speaking up but not once taking his eyes off the computer monitor in front of him.

Berenger strode over to Madsen's station and leaned over him: "Captain, get El Toro on the line, now," he ordered, "tell them to get a chopper out there on the double. We need to find out what are these things, and where the hell they came from."

"Sir, El Toro Air Station already has a Black Hawk in the air," said Madsen, repeating what he was hearing over his headphones, "we'll have a visual soon enough."

"Uh, sir?" spoke up Lt. Phelps from his desk; he was gripping a telephone handset up to his face, but his eyes were fixed on the telefax machine on his desk, which was busy humming away as a piece of paper began to emerge from it. He continued: "this just came in from NASA. _Challenger_ took this photo 10 minutes ago, just as the first anomaly was showing up on radar."

* * *

 **200m off of South Beach, Miami Beach,**  
 **State Of Florida, USA.**

"Holy shit, are you seeing this?!" remarked Lance as he knelt down over the yacht's railing, camcorder running.

"Lance, what the hell are you doing, leave that shit to CNN!" shouted Tony. Something huge was going down over on the beach, a few hundred yards away. Tony had seen some real fucked up shit in his life - hell, done a lot of it himself - but this was on a whole new level of horrific he'd never seen before. He grabbed Lance by the collar of his white jacket and pulled him back down onto the deck floor.

He turned to Daisy and Misty. The two bikini-clad chicks were huddled under the deck table, where they had taken cover the second the first gunshots were heard. "You two!" shouted Tony, "get the fuck below deck! NOW!" Daisy obeyed without question, but Misty just stayed where she was, frozen in fear. Tony had to physically reach down and pull her to her feet; he was a big guy and she was pretty skinny, but at that moment, somehow, it was like fear alone had made her double or triple in weight. _Oooff!,_ though Tony; as he pulled her up, he knocked over the deck table, throwing his gun, his wallet, several rolled-up hundred dollar bills, and four neatly drawn lines of coke all to the floor.

The _Mar Del Plata_ was a 100ft luxury yacht - brand spanking new, gleaming white, pair of two 1,622mhp marine diesels capable of pushing this baby up to 39 knots. She only cost seven, maybe eight million bucks. She was, however, a pleasure boat and not in any way equipped for a warzone, which the shore was now looking like. Still, the sleeping bunks below deck were the safest place on this damn boat he could think of. Half-gently, half-forcefully, he pushed Misty through the cabin hatch, and then looked up at the upper deck, where two other men were standing at the control panel.

"PABLO!" shouted Tony, "fire up the engines! Raise anchor! We're casting off!"

"Where to, Señor?" shouted Pablo, who was standing on the bridge above him. Beside him, Ramón, Tony's other goon, was glued to the spot, staring at the carnage erupting on the beach, clutching his Uzi tightly.

"I dunno, out to the ocean, just get us the fuck outta here!" retorted Tony. There was a rumbling as the _Mar Del Plata_ 's diesels roared to life, and the entire boat began to lurch forward, bobbing up and down in the waves. Lance by then had grabbed his camcorder off the floor and followed the girls down into the cabin. Tony, however, stayed out on deck, kneeling behind the gunwale for cover. He grabbed his Beretta M81 from where it had fallen, but all of a sudden, it felt puny next to just what exactly he could see on the beach.

The palm trees were burning. The boardwalk was burning. Umbrellas and deckchairs were burning. Shops and bars along the waterfront were burning. Cars lay empty and abandoned, including a Miami-Dade Police Dept. patrol car, its lights still flashing. And through it all, he could see several bulky figures plodding through the sand, completely undisturbed by all the carnage around them. They looked tiny from this distance, but he could tell they were massive next to the other people on the beach (or, rather, what was _left_ of these other people).

There was a whirring in the air. Tony looked up to see a helicopter swooping low over the beach for a closer look. It looked like a news chopper - it had WPTV stamped on its side in big letters. A second later, a burst of gunfire and a series of small explosions ripped throughout the chopper; it careened out of control and crashed into one of the beachfront condos, exploding into a ball of flame.

He'd seen enough. Tony ducked back below the gunwale, closed his eyes, and did something he hadn't done in a long time: he prayed. And he didn't dare open his eyes and look up again until Pablo told him they were at least a mile out to sea.

* * *

 **Gorky Street, Moscow,**  
 **Moscow Oblast, Russian SFSR, USSR.**

One moment, it was a normal evening in Moscow. It was October and the temperature outside was still pleasant. The lights on the Moskva Riverfront were all lit up. People were out and about, visiting shops and going out to eat. Constitution Day decorations, all the little flags and banners and such were still out - most people would probably keep them out for the next month leading up to the Revolution Day holidays. A westerner visiting the city might remark that this "nightlife" was rather modest and subdued compared to what you might find in one of the capitalist countries, but that mattered little to 13 year old Svetlana - she had lived here all her life; Moscow was her city, her home.

The next thing she knew, air raid sirens were going off everywhere. There was a bright light in the sky, a scream like thunder as if the air itself had cracked, and an explosion or something like that somewhere in the Kitay-gorod District. Svetlana didn't know if this was a nuclear attack or not - she'd learned about them in school of course, had done drills on what to do, duck and cover and all, but never could she ever imagine herself actually having to be in one herself.

Her father, Anatoly, grabbed her by the arm and pulled her after him as he began to run, so suddenly and forcefully that she dropped the shopping bag she was carrying, full of groceries and a little gift they had bought for mother.

Up ahead was the entrance to the Metro. The large golden arch adorned with the "M" in the center of it was usually a sight of comfort for her - this was the way she and everyone else always got around, especially since it would be a few years before the family was up on the list to finally be getting a car. But right now, it looked like the maw of some gigantic monster, greedily swallowing up all rushing inside of it. She could see people pushing and shoving, screaming and swearing.

A pair of black-coated police officers were standing outside, struggling to control the crowd. As Anatoly pulled her past them, she could hear what they were saying. "Da!" spoke the first officer, grasping his radio set up to his face. He turned to face the other one. "There's several of them heading in this direction! Close the gates!"

" _Who_?" replied the second officer, "who's coming this way?"

"Capitalist fascists!" screamed an elderly woman shambling past them, completely hysterical.

"Does it matter?" roared the first officer, ignoring her. Next to him was the metal control box that contained the emergency gate switch. Large, yellow Cyrillic letters printed on the box lid stated that they were to be used only in select circumstances; Svetlana shuddered - she knew from school exactly what was meant by that. Right now, the first officer struggled to open the box, his hands shaking furiously as he fumbled with the keys; the second officer was left alone, trying to push back the growing human tide.

Svetlana did not stay to find out how things ended up as by then, she and her father were already making their way down the first escalator. Moments later, she would hear gunfire, from well behind them, but knew not who had fired and at whom. All she could think about was mother and where could she possibly be right now - at home, or taking refuge herself in one of the Metro stations nearby?

* * *

* **Note** : the landings are happening all over Earth at the same time. It's morning in California and evening in Moscow due to time-zone differences.


	3. I Ran (So Far Away)

**Chapter III:**

 **IRAN (SO FAR AWAY)**

 **Khavaran District, Tehran,**  
 **Tehran Province, Islamic Republic Of Iran.**

Khalid threw himself flat as a chunk of the wall vanished in a loud **_BOOM!_** Chunks of plaster and masonry flew everywhere. One of his squad mates wasn't so lucky and went down screaming. The Iranian conscript scrambled back into cover, hugging his AK-47 close.

No one knew where the attackers had come from, only that they had come. He'd heard the impact earlier on, had heard people screaming about a meteor or a shooting star of some sort; at first he had taken these to have been another Iraqi missile attack. That's when the attackers appeared, right in the Grand Bazaar, shooting and slashing at everyone in sight, yelling battle cries through their strange helmets in an unknown language.

The Revolutionary Guard was mobilizing as fast as they could and their commanders were feeding in reservists into the sprawling fight whilst trying to contain the attackers. Even as the market place burned and the air was split by the staccato _boom-boom-boom_ of the attacker's heavy guns or the shrieks of their... _laser weapons_ (?), more and more army forces as well as militia and armed civilians were pouring into the area.

"What are those idiots doing?!"

It was Sergeant Ebrahimi, he stuck his head out as he heard chants of "GOD IS GREAT!" They were fresh recruits, most little more than young boys who barely fit in their uniforms. They charged forwards as a great mass, driven on by religious fervor and their Revolutionary Guard minders. They could only watch in horror as the black and white armored invaders stormed forwards to meet them, guns blazing, their swords howling.

* * *

 **Outskirts of Leningrad,  
Leningrad Oblast, Russian S.F.S.R.**

Gennady was twelve years old when the fascists laid siege to Leningrad. He was one of the few lucky ones who was able to make it onto one of the last trains out, and only because he was deemed too weak to fight, and so he and his little sister were herded onto a cattle car packed with dozens of other children like them. Their father, mother, and older brother all remained behind, and they never saw them again.

For the rest of the war they were put to work in Chelyabinsk - he worked on a production line making barrels for T-34 tanks, while sister helped sew uniforms. It was only well after the war was over that they were finally able to save enough money and obtain the needed travel permits that they were finally able to make it home, and by then, everything they knew was gone - their old home, the entire neighborhood completely wiped off the face of the Earth.

He was fifty-five now, and thankful to have had the chance to live a full life ever since. He felt he owed that much to the family he lost.

But today, once more, it seems the ghosts of the past had come back to haunt him. In the distance, he could hear air-raid sirens screeching, accompanied by gunfire and explosions somewhere south of him, down in the historic city center.

He stood there, by the window of his apartment, looking down at the street. He could also see others doing the same in the windows of the concrete apartment block across the street from him - mothers and fathers, little children, the elderly. They were all watching in silence as several large, loud, heavy vehicles came clanking by.

First came a pair of mighty T-55 tanks, rumbling right below his window. They were followed by two BMP infantry fighting vehicles. Behind these came several GAZ-66 trucks, full of infantry. As each truck drove past, Gennady was able to take a good look at the men inside them - young men all in their teens or early 20's at most, looking just as scared and unsure as he was. They must have been mainly reservists being called in from nearby Sertolovo - that's how they were able to have been brought in so quickly, but also why so many of them looked unprepared and inexperienced.

"Attention all citizens!" barked the loudspeakers mounted on a UAZ-452 van, bringing up the rear of the convoy, "we are under invasion by a foreign enemy! Stay in your homes! I repeat: stay in your homes! Lock your doors! Arm yourselves with whatever you can! Do not exit until the all-clear has been given! Attention all citizens, stay in your homes! I repeat: stay in your homes..."

 _Invasion?_ , thought Gennady, as puzzled as he was troubled, _who could it possibly be? The Americans? Finns? Karelians? And it was autumn; how could anyone be so stupid as to invade this place just before winter? Unless... was there going to be a nuclear bombing? Shouldn't we head to the shelter then?_

"Grandpa," piped up Zhorya, his little six-year-old granddaughter, appearing beside him, "what is the man saying?"

Gennady shook his head, and put an arm around her, as if afraid to lose her too. "It means," he sighed, "we are at war."

* * *

 **Riverfront, New Lodan,**  
 **Beta-Quadrant, Northern Hemisphere,**  
 **Terra Nova, Terra Nova System.**

Brother Attarn ducked back into the ruined habitation building his squad were sheltering in; he noted that the rockcrete used on this world was a weaker blend than what he was used to, and crumbled far too easily.

Come to think of it, the entire city of New Lodan had turned out to be completely different from what was indicated in the maps and datafiles they had studied while preparing for the drop. For one, the spaceport and heavy orbital defense guns they were supposed to secure were nowhere to be found. For another, the signs were all in some strange language even though the datafiles had stated that New Lodan was in a predominantly Low Gothic-speaking part of the world.

The Fists had landed on the waterfront of the city. Local resistance there was dealt with swiftly and without mercy, mainly because they were much less numerous and equipped than what had been expected here, armed mainly with small stubguns. Though Attarn suspected that their main forces were probably elsewhere, spread out over the entire planet, though it would not take much time to rally them.

"Rebel strike force dead ahead," warned Brother Mondrago, "their weapons are primitive but they have a lot of them."

"Aye, and they have armored support moving up. Sergeant Tork reported two tanks as well as two smaller boxed transports, a Chimera analogue he believes."

The squad of Fists were waiting, their helms could pick up the rumble of engines and the clank of tracks as the locals' armored forces drew closer. Sergeant Attarn glanced at his auspex; it showed the location of his and Tork's demi-squads, as well as Honored Brother Crasin who was sheltered under some more rubble.

"Remember brothers, kill shots," he reminded them, "conserve your ammunition until we can reconnect with the fleet and resupply."

Just outside, a large tank - roughly the size of a Leman Russ Battle Tank, but much lower in profile and with a rounded turret - was trundling along with another of its colleagues, as well as two vehicles that resembled Astra Militarum Chimeras, and thus probably full of men. Ten more men walked ahead of the small convoy in an echelon, autoguns raised as they scanned the burning buildings of the wrecked waterfront. He noted that their uniforms vaguely resembled those of the Valhallan Ice Warriors (down to the bright red shoulder boards worn by some regiments), albeit absent any winter coats or flak armor. The advancing rebels tried to ignore the corpses in the street and concentrate on their mission, a sweep of the area to find any survivors.

"NOW BROTHERS! FOR THE EMPEROR!"

* * *

 **Neva Riverfront, Leningrad,**  
 **Leningrad Oblast, Russian S.F.S.R.**

The bassy, metallic voice boomed out. Even over the clanking of the treads and chugging of the diesel engine behind them, Sergeant Pyotr Strelnikov, 63rd Guards Training Motor Rifle Division, could still hear it. Sitting at the rear of the turret of the lead tank, he couldn't understand a word of it, but he knew it was a threat even before the storefront collapsed as something large burst through the wall.

Through his sights, he spied a squat boxlike shape emerge from the dust and rubble, the size of a van, a small narrow slit across the front of it, with one arm protruding from its left side ending in a brutal looking clawed hand, and another arm protruding from its right side and ending in what looked like an oversized rotary cannon. And this war machine walked on two legs, like a man - or more like a robot out of some bad science fiction film.

"Target right!" he barked, "load AP!"

Right in front of where Strelnikov was seated, Dmitry, the gunner, traversed the turret to the right. To the right of him, their loader, Vasili, was visibly shaking, but he complied as he pulled an armor-piercing shell from the bin, and rammed it into the breach.

At that moment, the walking robot opened fire, its rotary cannon roaring as it spun and viciously raked the convoy. The T-55's thick armor was safe against one or two bursts from the heavy calibre cannon fire unless hit in the rear, but one of the BMPs coming up behind was shredded completely, its occupants bailing out of the smoking infantry fighting vehicle.

Even as the two T-55s slewed their turrets round, Strelnikov spied more movement as ten or so of the armored humanoids, smaller than the robot-thing but still easily much larger than any human, were moving, sprinting out of cover. Their guns shot like automatic rocket-propelled grenades; two infantrymen's bodies seemed to explode into pink mist. The remaining infantrymen advancing in front of the tanks immediately took cover and returned fire, but their Kalashnikovs were completely _useless_ against the onrushing armored attackers. Even the DShK machine gun mounted on the turret of Captain Trepaknik's tank beside them was just glancing off.

"Target!" shouted Dmitry.

"FIRE!" commanded Strelnikov.

The **_BOOM_** of the gun firing filled the inside of the turret. The shell flew true, slamming into one of the attackers. Advanced armor or not, there was little that could take a direct hit from a 100mm armor-piercing round at this close range, and this time, its armor failed to save it. Strelnikov almost cheered inside; it was a small victory, but at least he could go to his grave and whatever hell awaited him knowing they had accomplished something. In front of him, Dmitry madly fired away with the co-axial machine gun while Vasili struggled to heave another shell as quickly as he could. Then there was a **_CLANG_** as something slammed into the tank and that was it.

* * *

 **Outside of Korem, Tigray Region,**  
 **People's Democratic Republic Of Ethiopia.**

Another day had drawn to a close. Night granted reprieve from the blistering heat, and it also meant that he couldn't see the great masses of the sick and the dying, though he could still hear them. That, and night was also when evil spirits and the shadow of death would be out and about. So, when one thought about it, it was really difficult to decide if night truly was better than day at all.

Senai hadn't had a meal in two days now, and even that last meal was but a meager handout of rice - not even any sauce or anything to go with it, just rice. He was weak. He was so hungry, it hurt. He looked around him. The only place he had to sleep was a small piece of burlap on hard ground out in the open, surrounded on all sides of him by dozens of others, all trying to get some sleep. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, unwashed bodies, vomit and diarrhea, and with the sounds of flies buzzing and babies crying. Some would not live to see the sun rise the next morning. On the one hand, Senai dreaded being one of them.

On the other hand... he was in such pain, who knows, maybe death was not so bad after all? He had tried to be a good boy his whole life. Maybe God would be merciful and understanding. He heard some of the others talking about seeing a shooting star earlier that evening. Perhaps it was a sign?

Just then, there were shouts and cries of panic. Weakly, Senai looked up. He saw a large group of people at the edge of camp running. What could they possible be running for? No food shipments came at night that were worth fighting over. And on closer look, he noticed among them were the Westerners, including Brigitte, the French doctor from _Medicins Sans Frontieres,_ and her helpers.

That's when he saw them. A group of men were striding towards the camp from the west, except that they were taller than any man Senai had ever seen in his life, and covered head to toe in green metal armor. It was difficult to make out anything else about them from this distance, only that they were carrying weapons - very large weapons, even larger than any Senai had ever seen before in the hands of any of the Derg's soldiers. Would they attack, just like the Derg? They seemed to be just standing there, watching, observing, as if more curious than anything.

Maybe he should have tried to run away like the others, but Senai did not - mostly as he was too weak to get up, but also partly because he found himself unable to look away from them, such was the incredible sight they made for. They almost looked like angels from God himself. And if they were, then he was more than happy to let them take him away from this cruel world.


	4. Living On Video

_Thanks again everyone for the positive feedback and support. In response to some of the points raised by readers over the last chapter:_

 _Yes, we are seeing a global invasion taking place, basically World War Three. So far, we've seen landings of different forces across the USA, USSR, Iran, and Ethiopia, and we'll see plenty more countries too getting affected, just wait and see. The USA and the USSR will be featured heavily of course because of the whole Cold War thing going on, but we'll also see other places around the world where shit was definitely going down in the '80s._

 _Yes, characters with names like "Marty", "Cameron", "Doc", and "Tony" were indeed intended as homages to certain beloved series from this period, and as the series goes on, be sure to keep your eyes open for other Easter eggs._

 _No, sorry, I think that a 100mm armor-penetrating shell fired from a tank's main gun at point-blank range *can* penetrate Power Armor - or at the very least under the right circumstances (if nothing else, let's just say that this particular Space Marine failed an armor save and call it even). But, that said, Earth's forces are still severely outclassed by the Imperium's._

 _Yes, Leningrad and Moscow hold special emotional value for the Soviet Union, and you can guarantee that they're not going to give up without a fight. The light force described in the previous chapter (two T-55 tanks + support) was just a preliminary response force, and the rest of the Red Army's forces and manpower are still being mobilized. Remember that these chapters are all taking place within the first hour of the invasion._

 _Yes, every chapter title is a pun or a reference that also (tries to) relate to something within the chapter itself._

 _And finally, yes, a certain special individual *does* indeed exist on this Earth and, fate willing, we will see him eventually._

 _All that said, onwards!_

* * *

 **Chapter IV:**

 **LIVING ON VIDEO**

 **Somewhere on Jakar Continent (?),**  
 **Gamma-Quadrant, Northern Hemisphere,**  
 **Terra Nova, Terra Nova System,**  
 **Imperial Date: 3779084.M42**

It was nighttime, but that mattered little to Brother Librarian Kuril - even without his helmet visor or his superbly enhanced vision that came with his transformation into an Astartes, all those decades ago, his considerable mastery in the energies of the Warp granted him almost a third eye in perceiving the world around him. The squad had landed out on the slopes of a mountain, in a bamboo forest. The good news was that there were no hostiles in the immediate landing zone. The bad news was that this meant wherever they were, they had drifted far off-course. Kuril could feel through the Warp the presence of a large concentration of millions of souls somewhere to the east of them - a large urban area. Perhaps this had been their intended destination.

He closed his eyes again and concentrated. Something was very strange about the Warp on this world, though he could not quite place it. On their way down, he had felt a sharp pain as they entered the atmosphere, such that Brother Tomas had to physically restrain him. It only lasted a split second, but ever since then, Kuril felt that something was off about his vision. For some strange reason, this world felt... _cleaner_? He couldn't sense the Ruinous Powers' influence nearly as strongly as he could before. It was almost as though this world existed in a galaxy of its own, cut-off from the rest of the 42nd Millennium. But surely that couldn't be the case, for then what about the reports from their scouts about the cults and the rituals they had seen? They could not possibly be mistaken, could they? And what exactly was that presence that Kuril had felt on their way down?

He focused harder. No, they were right, there was definitely _something_ on this world, something very powerful, nay, _extremely powerful_. He was certain it did not bear the foul stench of corruption, but one could never be sure. And regardless, in league with the dark powers or not, something of power of this magnitude, existing all these years without the Imperium's sanction or knowledge thereof, could only be a _threat_. Whatever this thing was, they would have to find it... and purge it in the name of the Emperor.

"Brother-Librarian," warned Tomas' voice over the vox-caster; he was a couple dozen yards ahead of him. "I detect hostiles heading in our direction."

"I know, I can feel them," responded Kuril, "you need not worry, I sense they are unarmed." He paused as his third eye reached out through the Warp, trying to glean more about the two figures approaching them. "They are but ordinary Humans, no taint upon either of them that I can feel. They have far more reason to be afraid of us than us of them. Unless of course you dread an unarmed civilian more than you would a Genestealer, judging from that time you wasted half a clip of bolts on that house cat on Jedha Prime because it jumped out at you."

There was mild and hoarse chuckles from the rest of the squad.

"It was a tainted cat," protested Tomas, and Kuril could sense he was clearly not amused. Regardless, he dutifully obeyed the Librarian's suggestion that perhaps violence should not be their first course of action.

Sure enough, there appeared two natives, males, walking along the trail through the bamboo forest. They had flashlights with them, pretty weak devices. At Tomas' command, the brothers revealed themselves, though without firing a single shot, expecting that just their appearance and reputation alone would cow these two into submission. One of them stared blankly, while the other shouted out in a foreign language.

"Be calm, citizen," declared Kuril as he approached them, "we mean you no harm, unless you will it. Comply with us, or _else_." He addressed them both in Low Gothic, though it appeared that was not what they spoke, and also through a psychic shroud he cast upon them, which was indeed a language they did speak.

The two men seemed to calm down, somewhat. Kuril calmly held forth his right hand, almost touching the forehead of the first. He then closed his eyes, and focused on communicating with him psionically, since it appeared the language barrier would be an issue. At once, Kuril felt his psychic third eye begin to glow, and felt like he was opening up a window into the native's own mind.

The first of the two men went by the name _Ataru Miyagi_ , he was 29 standard Imperial years of age, and he came from a nearby city called... _Chiba_ , where he worked as a... _computer programmer_. Kuril saw visions of Miyagi's work, large bulky boxy things with monochrome displays, not too different from many of the machines in use throughout the Imperium, though nowhere near as sophisticated as their dataslates. However, the absence of any recognizable form of the Adeptus Mechanicus on this world unnerved him slightly, as it indicated to him that this world was building thinking machines without the Mechanicum's guidance or the blessings of their Omnissiah. A very dangerous and slippery slope indeed that they were treading upon.

Apparently, Miyagi had come here, with his friend Shutaro, to the slopes of this... _Mount Fuji_ on a camping holiday. Hmmm, curious, so while the rest of the planet was consumed by war, this area, this... _Kanto Region_ seemed relatively peaceful such that people like this Miyagi and his friend could afford to take such leisure time to himself. Kuril investigated further, probing deeper into Ataru's mind.

More images, diverse and in fragments, crossed over from Ataru's mind to Kuril's. First, he saw Ataru's home in the city so-called "Chiba", a tiny habitation module, not too different from those in most Imperial cities that Kuril had fought in. Bamboo mats covered the floor, and the decoration was sparse. Mounted on a table was a large monitor screen of some kind, the strange word SONY inscribed across the front of it. It looked similar enough to the other monitors Kuril had seen that he supposed that this was another such "computer" - he was not particularly well-versed in these as their company's Brother-Adept Techmarine would be, but he had gleaned enough about their workings from over the years.

Yes, it seemed that Ataru would spend a not insignificant portion of his day sitting and watching this screen religiously... this was how he obtained the majority of his contact with the outside world. And when Kuril decided to probe deeper into the nature of Ataru's communications, what he saw was not encouraging.

First, he saw images of old men in various types of military uniforms and coats, similar to those of certain regiments of the Astra Militarum, vaguely like the Valhallans or the Vostroyans, and festooned in a dazzling array of shining medals and ribbons. Two in particular were standing on the edge of a balcony of a building, overlooking a square that looked not too different from most Imperial cities with towering Gothic spires, while below them rows upon rows of tanks, armored vehicles, and what looked like Manticore and Deathstrike Missile launchers rolled past them. It was clear beyond any reasonable doubt that this world was arming up for a war. Above them, a waving banner of a yellow sickle and hammer on a red background proudly proclaimed their allegiance to an authority that was clearly very different from that of the Imperium.

" _Weapons_..." murmured Kuril to himself.

Then he saw a vision of another old man. Unlike the others, he was dressed much more simply, in civilian-looking clothes, but it was clear he held considerable power and influence on this world. He was standing at a podium, addressing a large crowd of people, preaching to them about an... "Evil Empire"? Was he talking about the _Imperium_? He investigated further, though Miyagi's memory was patchy.

" _Superpowers_..." murmured Kuril.

He saw visions of what looked like a satellite in orbit above the planet. And there was a brilliant flash as it lit up and unleashed a laser, at least as bright and penetrating as any Imperal lascannon. And then once more he saw the face of the same old man he had seen before, dominating the frame of the monitor screen, and beneath it the words...

 **スターウォーズ**

 **...**

 ** _STAR WARS_**

So these natives indeed possessed a powerful weapon, something called a... _Strategic Defense Initiative or "Star Wars"_. This could be crucial information for the Imperium to know about. But Kuril would need to find out more about these, and so he actively began searching Ataru's mind for more on what this "Star Wars" could possibly mean.

And then he saw that this world's ambitions extended well beyond mere automated laser stations in orbit. He could see visions of battles raging out in space, swarms of lightning fast attack craft firing lasers at each other, massive grey triangular-shaped ships lumbering overhead, almost blocking Ataru's field of vision. He could see people - a beautiful noblewoman dressed entirely in white, her hair styled into two buns on either side of her head, reminding Kuril vaguely of the fashion sported by Imperial aristocrats on some of the worlds he had fought on. There was a young man with her - her lover... no, her brother? Her _twin brother_? Disgusting! He was wielding a green glowing powersword. He wore no power armor, but clearly his psyker powers were very well developed.

And Xenos among them, including one who was covered in fur, and another that had a head that looked like that of a fish. It was clear now that Terra Nova was just one of several worlds who were part of something called a... _Rebel Alliance_ , and they were consorting with _Xenos_! And Kuril could see that they had already engaged the Imperium in several battles before, except that the proud battle brothers of the Adeptus Astartes were being shown as weak, pathetic, white-armored, easily cut down by these rebels, all useless save for what looked like a facsimile of an Inquisitor, black cape billowing behind him, wielding a glowing red powersword.

Kuril shook his head; these must have been propaganda reels that Miyagi was watching, or perhaps he was so heavily indoctrinated by the deceit and treachery of his planetary government that he sincerely believed this version of his world's heresy to be true. Kuril was already started to get angered; this Miyagi may have intended no harm to anyone, but his ignorance and misled beliefs were startling, especially if it was shared by the rest of this world's populace, and as Kuril knew well enough, the road to the ruinous powers was more often than not paved not by malice, but by pure good intentions mixed with ignorance.

And then he saw visions of... Tau battlesuits? What else could they be? Yes, they looked like the armor of those cowardly Tau alright, down to the smooth and clean lines and rounded edges and other shapes that were completely alien to most things made by the Imperium. The sight of these machines angered Kuril greatly. He probed Ataru's mind, trying to learn what was the meaning of this, and saw the words...

 **機動戦士ガンダム**

 **...**

 _ **Mobile Suit Gundam**_

"Gundam..." grumbled Kuril. _Gundam_... was that the local name these natives had for the Tau? Regardless, this was disturbing. The Tau Empire was located all the way out in Ultima Segmentum, beyond the Damocles Gulf, and the Administratum had always been very careful about just what little knowledge of them was permitted to circulate to other worlds. There was absolutely no way the people of Terra Nova should know about them outside of official sanctioned propaganda. That a lowly computer programmer here on this world knew about the capabilities of battlesuits alarmed him greatly, as it indicated that this "Rebel Alliance" of which Terra Nova was part of also had a vast galaxy-spanning intelligence network. Perhaps the fiendish Tau even had a hand behind this organization - their deceitful promises of their "Greater Good" could find much appeal among the Imperium's less privileged classes. The Inquisition needed to be informed about this.

Still deeper he looked, and saw yet more that angered him. Visions of this world's plans for treachery, their space combat capabilities, as well as their military's possession of something called a... a...

 **超時空要塞マクロス**

 **...**

 _ **Super Dimension Fortress Macross**_

Until now, he had remained calm as he continued searching, and Kuril had to admit, he had rarely if ever done this before - on most operations he had served on, it was a simple matter of killing Xenos and Daemons and putting up a shield of faith and duty in place to keep his mind clear of any influences. The few times before he had melded with someone's mind, it was to help calm down and extract information from Imperial subjects, and their loyalty was never in question.

But what he saw now filled Kuril with rage. The "emperor" that Miyagi honored was most certainly _not_ the Emperor he was looking for. No, Miyagi's "emperor" (if you could even call him that!) was naught more than a weak and pathetic human being, a simple old man with glasses, grey hair, and a mustache, dressed in simple clothing, residing in a puny palace in the city just east of them. This "emperor" was a pretender, absolutely _nothing_ on the level of the sheer glory and magnificence of _His Holiness The God Emperor!_

Ataru Miyagi let loose a bloodcurdling scream as his mind was slowly fried from inside-out by the angered Librarian, while beside him, his companion Shutaro screamed too in terror at seeing what was happening. Brother Tomas swiftly brought his clenched fist down on the latter's head, cutting off the noise.

"Was that necessary?" chided Brother Saren.

"He would have revealed our position to others," shrugged Tomas.

"No more weapons! No more superpowers!" growled Kuril, "No more false emperor! Move on, brothers, I know where our target lies!"

* * *

 **1600 Pennsylvania Ave., Washington,  
District Of Columbia, USA.**

"Caspar, what the hell is going on?" barked the President, standing up from his desk as the Secretary Of Defense entered the Oval Office. "We're being invaded by God knows who and I feel like I'm being kept in the dark about it!" To demonstrate his point, he held up the remote-control and turned up the volume on his Sony Trinitron Color TV.

CNN was on, and the first thing to come up was the flashing headline "BREAKING NEWS: AMERICA UNDER ATTACK", coupled with the first images that were coming out of L.A. The proud city had hosted the Olympics just earlier that year and yet had now become a war zone. An aerial shot from a news chopper showed smoke rising from Hollywood, and then panned left to show more smoke rising from Century City. The President knew this area well, and so it came as no surprise to SecDef that he now looked genuinely upset at what he was now seeing.

The channel then cut to another camera crew at their studio. CNN's center in L.A. was right on Sunset Boulevard, not too far from ground zero; the camera crew on the building's roof caught a clear bird's eye view of the carnage unfolding just a few blocks away. The familiar pagoda tower of the Chinese Theater was on fire. In the air, several police helicopters were buzzing around the scene, though he could see a Black Hawk helicopter bearing USMC insignia on it joining them a moment later - probably sent from El Toro.

The Secretary shifted uncomfortably at the sight on TV. "Well, Sir," he began, "we've confirmed that it's _definitely_ not the Reds."

"Well, thank God it's not the Reds, that's an enormous relief isn't it?" spat the President, bitterly. "So who are they? Where'd they come from? Why're they attacking us?"

"Mr. President, we're still trying to figure that out ourselves," replied Caspar. He reached into the folder he was carrying, and retrieved several papers. "...here's what we know so far. Exactly thirty minutes ago, NASA detected several... _anomalies_ appear in the upper thermosphere."

"Anomalies?" asked the President, raising an eyebrow.

"For want of a better term, yes," replied the Secretary, "a burst of radiation, followed by this..." He presented a color photograph of... some kind of weird portal, glowing and swirling with all manner of pink and purple and blue and orange, in sharp contrast to the blackness of space behind it. "This photo was taken by the crew of _Challenger_ at 1201 EST."

"It looks like a goddamn _eye_ ," remarked the President, "like something out of some terrible b-movie."

 _Of course, leave it to the President to know a thing or two about terrible b-movies_ , thought the Secretary to himself. He continued: "This anomaly and several others appeared just out of nowhere and then dissipated again, within one minute. Immediately, we detected incoming bogies over California, Texas, Florida, South Dakota, and Virginia. EUCOM detected similar anomalies over UK Airspace. Our first thought was that the Reds must have been developing some new advanced delivery system because we never detected any launches. We had, at most, a few seconds before they were upon us, didn't even have time to scramble anti-missile defenses. On one hand, well, the good thing is that they're not nukes. On the other hand..."

He took a glance at the TV. Now, it had cut to a second unit, who were standing just outside the CNN building's entrance; they dared not venture any further out. But even there, the cameras were able to catch vivid images of people out on the street, some staring rooted to the ground in shock, others running for their lives. Sunset Boulevard was clogged with traffic as cars came streaming away from Hollywood; it wasn't just the eastbound lanes, but the pile-up had spread to the westbound lanes too as several drivers had tried to cut around the traffic and had ended up colliding with vehicles heading in the opposite direction. A pair of LAPD officers were standing just outside the CNN center, furiously shouting and waving at those drivers still in their cars, trying to clear the way for a SWAT truck and several police cars driving bravely into the war zone to try and restore order.

He continued: "Langley's noticed a surge in communications on the other side of the Curtain over this last half-hour. We can now confirm they've got landings in Moscow, Leningrad, one somewhere in the Urals, Poland, and one in East Germany too."

"These are not the only places, are they?" asked the President.

"No, sir, they are not," sighed SecDef, "last two confirmed just before I came here were Manila and Jerusalem."

The President shook his head. "And Margaret?"

"She's in Brighton at the moment, she was attending a party conference. But London is under attack; I doubt she'll be returning anytime soon."

"And the Queen?"

"Last we know from British Intelligence is that... she's in London," said Caspar, reproachfully, "together with the Prince Of Wales and his wife, and their two boys."

" _Christ_ ," breathed the President. It was like the darn Book Of Revelation come true.

"Uh, sir? Now concerning the landing in Virginia..."

"Yes, where are they, and where are they heading now?"

"The National Guard tracked their landing to somewhere just south of the Rappahanock River. Based on observations from satellites, volume of traffic of 911 calls in the area, and just general chaos, it looks like they're heading in the direction of Richmond. Sir, if... if we can't stop them... we'll need to evacuate DC."

"There's 5 million people in the capital area," said the President, glumly. He grabbed a handful out of a bowl of jellybeans he kept on the _Resolute_ desk next to him at all times. He always used to say you could tell a lot about a man based on whether and how they ate whatever was offered to them, and as SecDef noted, based on how he was handling and chewing them at that moment, this was not a moment of "happy eating" on the President's part.

"Norfolk's already on high combat alert, sir. I'm going to order all of our other bases and forces around the globe be moved to DEFCON-1. I don't think they mean to nuke us or they would have done so already, but we can't entirely rule out that possibility yet."

* * *

 **Philadelphia International Airport (PHL), Philadelphia,**  
 **State Of Pennsylvania, USA.**

The guards stood back and saluted as the '83 Cadillac Fleetwood limousine sped past them, and out onto the tarmac. The car screeched to a halt right beside the specially modified and painted Boeing 707 jetliner. The car's passengers got out - namely, one man in particular and the secret service agents escorting him. He was in Philly because he was supposed to debate Ms. Ferrero tonight on national TV, but somehow, in only half-an-hour, the entire world had been turned upside down and gone completely mad, and the event was now called off.

As he climbed up the steps to the aircraft, he took a moment to take a good look at her. It was clear the old plane was starting to show her age, and if Congress approved it, next year they would start looking for a replacement - George already had his sights set on acquiring a pair of Jumbos from Boeing - but in the mean time, the ol' girl SAM 26000 and her sister 27000 still had grit.

He entered the plane and took his seat in the office onboard usually reserved for the President himself. One of his aides followed him in. "Mr. Vice-President," he spoke, "flight time to Andrews Field will be about 30min."

"So we're not relocating to Raven Rock?" asked George, taking a seat at the mahogany desk and fastening his seatbelt.

"No, sir," replied the aide, "the President is adamant that we remain in DC - it'll be good for the nation's morale. We abandon the capital now and people will panic, think a nuclear attack is imminent. _We_ know it's not the Reds, but the people don't."

Within minutes, Air Force One... sorry, Air Force _Two_ had taxied to the runway, and then taken off.

George took off his glasses and looked out the window. He used to think he'd seen and done it all. Against his dad's wishes, he'd enlisted and become the youngest pilot ever in the Navy; he'd flown over 50 combat missions over the Pacific back in WW2, had even survived getting shot down into the ocean once. He'd since come back, gone to Yale, made his millions out in the oilfields of Texas (with a little help from a small loan from dad of course), served twice in Congress, spent a year in China, even been director of the CIA for a year. But what he was seeing and hearing now - it was surreal, like nothing he had ever encountered before. For the first time in a long time, he felt completely lost in a situation completely out of his control.

He picked up the telephone on the desk, and began dialing. "Dad?" replied a voice over the telephone, "oh God, Dad! I'm watching the latest from Dallas. It's _awful!_ "

"Junior," spoke George, firmly, "listen, whatever happens, keep Laura and the girls safe. You hear me? Whatever happens... you keep at least a hundred miles between you and... and _them_ , understood?" It pained him to say this, to think that Dallas might be lost and these... _monsters_ or whatever the hell they were... would break out and run roughshod across half of Texas, maybe half the whole damn country. Use of tactical nukes might even be a very real possibility. But alas, in his line of work, every eventuality needed to be considered and prepared for.

George spoke for a few minutes more, and then hung up. It wouldn't be a very long flight, and he needed to get his papers and things in order for he'd be landing boots on the ground. The President of course would be making the speeches and saying all the inspiring stuff people wanted or needed to hear because he was good at that stuff, sure. But guess who would be doing all the paperwork and reviewing all the reports while that was going on. Oh boy, he was not going to get much sleep at all for the next few days.

The intercom buzzed to life: "Mr. Vice-President, sir, we have a visitor."

"I'm busy," scowled George, "he can wait."

" _She_ insists, says it's important," replied the intercom. "It's Ms. Ferrero."

 _Ms. Ferrero?_ , thought George to himself, _what could she possibly want? Hell, how'd she make it onto the plane in the first place?_ Gosh darn it to heck, he would have to have a _severe_ talk with the Marshals after they landed - if they were just letting anyone onboard, and with a war against an unknown foreign enemy going on. But he also had to admit it, someone who went to that much trouble to get onto Air Force One (sorry, _Two_ ) - that had to be admired, and he supposed he felt he owed her an audience, at least to see how she'd done it. "Send her in but tell her to make it quick," he replied.

The door opened, and a woman entered his office, escorted by a couple secret service agents. Right away, he noticed something was off, and he almost felt the need to berate the agents for not noticing something so obvious. For one, she was certainly much taller than he remembered, and that was not a good sign. But he decided to go ahead and see what was the meaning of this. "Ms. Ferrero, a pleasure," he offered, standing up, "here, please do take a seat." He turned to face the two agents: "thank you, leave us."

Once they were alone and the doors closed, he confronted her: "you're not Ms. Ferrero."

"No, I am not, but I felt that you wouldn't see me otherwise," replied the impromptu guest.

George was annoyed. "Who are you?"

"My name is Adrienne Kovacs, and I am the CEO of The Company™," she replied "I thought I would come to see you in person, seeing as sending anyone less would be disrespectful. There are some very important things we have to talk about."

"Sorry, _which_ company?" asked George.

" _The_ Company™," replied Adrienne, "complete with the little ™ on the end. Here's my card. You may or may not have heard of us."


	5. We Are The Earth

**WE ARE THE EARTH**  
 _From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia._

 **Label** : Columbia Records (US), Phonogram Records (UK), Ministry Of Culture (USSR).

 **Recorded** : Jan 28-29, 1985.

 **Released** : Feb 28, 1985.

 **Genre** : pop, gospel.

 **Format** : 7" vinyl, 12" vinyl, VHS single.

 **Producer** : Quincy Jones, Bob Geldof.

 **Vocalists** : (listed by country)

 _ **U.S.A.**_ : Michael Jackson, Lionel Richie, Cyndi Lauper, Bruce Springsteen, Huey Lewis, Debbie Harry, Robert "Kool" Bell.

 ** _U.K._** : David Bowie, George Michael, Midge Ure, Annie Lennox, Phil Collins, John Lydon, Sarah Dallin, Keren Woodward.

 ** _Ireland_** : Bob Geldof.

 ** _West Germany_** : Nena, Marian Gold.

 ** _East Germany_** : Dieter Hertrampf.

 ** _U.S.S.R._** : Eduard Khil, Zoya Pravdina* (Russian version only).

 ** _India_** : Kishore Kumar.

 ** _Israel_** : Ofra Haza.

 ** _Italy_** : Luciano Pavarotti.

 _ **Sweden**_ : Benny Andersson.

 **History** :

 _We Are The Earth_ is a charity and propaganda song recorded by the supergroup United Singers Of Earth (USE) in 1985. It was largely co-written by Michael Jackson, Lionel Richie, and Bob Geldof in response to the sudden invasion and following disastrous World War Three that raged across much of Earth, beginning in late 1984. The purpose of the song was to raise money to help those affected by the war, but also to spread a message "about global unity and perseverance in the face of this world-changing event" [sic].

The project was largely the brainchild of The Boomtown Rats frontman Bob Geldof and his wife Paula Yates. Geldof, a resident of Dublin, Ireland, did not personally witness the invasion first hand, although he did watch live broadcasts of the battles in London and Belfast, and would later visit both war-ravaged cities in November, once travel and order had been restored. Geldof and Yates were deeply moved by what they saw, and also personally knew a number of people who were killed during the initial attack. By mid-November, they and their close friend, Ultravox frontman Midge Ure, decided to get together the top (surviving) names left in the British music industry and record a special song in time for Christmas aimed at raising funds to support victims of the ongoing war, as well as help raise national morale across the grieving nation.

Around the same time, American entertainer and social activist Harry Belafonte was looking to do a similar project in the USA. Belafonte reached out to music industry giant Quincy Jones, who eagerly snapped up the proposal. The mid-80's were a notorious slump for the music industry, with a severe decline in everything from new releases to concert attendances (due in large part to the devastation of major centers like Los Angeles and London, the deaths of many big names in the industry, and the subsequent global economic depression), and idea like Belafonte's was seen as a much needed break.

It was also Jones who, through his various contacts in the UK, learned about Geldof's project and hit upon the idea of an international collaboration between America and Britain. Through a series of phone calls, it was eventually decided that their song would have the strongest impact if the message was not just about raising money to help those affected by the war, but also made as a global show of unity and solidarity among different nations of Earth, as represented of course by the singers.

Thus, together, they announced the creation of United Singers Of Earth (USE) by early December 1984, and set about the task of writing the song and contacting and inviting a number of international stars and music personalities around the globe. Of course, the vastly expanded scale of the production meant that it would be too late to get a song out by Christmas (as was originally intended), but USE was still determined to have the song complete by the end of January. Issues of timing and logistics meant that the majority of the final participants were American or British, although USE was able to secure the participation of representatives of seven other countries, including the USSR, as well as both East and West Germany.

Securing the participation of the USSR proved to be the most difficult. On one hand, the invasion had done much to ease USA/USSR relations somewhat that, just the year before, had teetered on the brink of all-out nuclear war. The Soviet Ministry Of Culture was also fully invested in using music as one way of raising public morale. On the other hand, tensions still lingered, and Soviet authorities were also doubtful on the project's aims, and whether such resources could be better allocated elsewhere. In the end, however, the Ministry Of Culture did permit one singer to participate, famed baritone and People's Artist Of Russia Award recipient Eduard Khil, thereby ensuring that one of the largest countries in the world (and the one doing much of the fighting) would be represented on a song meant to inspire global unity.

Besides issues concerning government permission, the inclusion of singers from around the world created additional logistical problems for USE - not least of all arranging and funding transportation. Although commercial flights and shipping were largely resumed by December after months of disruption, the backlog of passenger and cargo traffic during that time meant that securing passage for all the singers to appear in one location was difficult and expensive.

Finally, there was the fact that several of the stars were not fluent in English, and had to be coached through their lines - attentive listeners will be able to note which of the lines in the final song were sung by native English speakers and which weren't.

After all the difficulty in bringing all the different elements together, USE finally came together and recorded the song over several sessions spanning two days between Jan 28 and 29, 1985. The recording was done at the CBS Studio Building in New York City (as Columbia's preferred studio facilities in Los Angeles were all either destroyed or abandoned during the Battle Of Los Angeles).

In addition to the English language version of the song, Khil recorded a separate Russian language version (with reworked lyrics) for release in the USSR. This alternate version was sung as a duet between himself and his wife, Zoya Pravdina (who had traveled with him to the USA). This was done partly as it was felt that this version of the song would be easier to get the approval of censors in the Eastern Bloc nations, as well as to circumvent any critique of the fact that Khil had the fewest lines in the original song due to not being fluent in English.

 **See also:**

-World War III in popular music

-We Are The Earth Tour (1985-86)

-The Concert For Bangladesh (1971)

-Concerts For Kampuchea (1979)

-Live Aid 4 Earth (1985)

-Mid-80's Music Slump aka "The Year Music Died"


	6. Major Tom (Coming Home)

**Chapter V:**

 **MAJOR TOM, COMING HOME**

 **391km above Earth.**

Kate Sullivan was back inside the orbiter; maneuvering herself around the zero-G mid-deck was only slightly easier - she was still in the bulky spacesuit, but at least the helmet was off. She pulled herself up through the hatch and into the flight deck; she was followed close behind by David, who had also been out on EVA with her, and then Marc, who had been the one operating the airlock. With seven people inside, the flight deck was pretty cramped, but it was essential that they all be present for this emergency briefing.

Their mission commander, Robert, was already strapped into his seat, at the front-left of the cockpit. "Houston, this is _Challenger_ ," spoke Robert, calmly and clearly, "requesting immediate mission abort. Over."

" _Challenger_ , this is Houston," hissed the radio, "your request has been noted, we are working on a suitable reentry vector. Note: the President has just ordered all non-military air traffic grounded, and SecDef has moved all forces to DEFCON-1. We are trying to contact DOD for permission and clearance for landing, but it looks like Kennedy and Edwards will not be available. Over."

"Are those the only options?" asked Sally, strapped into the seat just behind, "what about the pre-selected emergency landing sites?"

"Most of those are either air force bases, or commercial airports," muttered Jon, their pilot, in the seat to the right of Rob, "good luck finding a landing window."

"Roger that, Houston. Over and out," spoke Rob, who then turned to face the rest of the crew, "they're gonna try to get us a window at... Goose Bay, Labrador. But it'll probably be at least half an hour. In the mean time, I want everyone to begin prep for reentry. Garneau! Scully! Payload secured?"

"Affirmative," replied Scully.

"What's the latest from Earth?" asked Marc.

Robert sighed before he continued. NASA only hired the best of the best, and as a veteran naval aviator and test pilot, he was as good as they come and kept a straight face, but Kate could see beneath it that whatever was going on groundside had severely shaken him. He replied: "they've hit major cities all around the globe... LA, Dallas, Miami, London, Moscow, Hong Kong, Beijing, Jerusalem. Thousands dead. And climbing."

"Shit," breathed Scully.

"Those... things we saw..." began Sally, "so they were _wormholes_? That's how they... _teleported_ in? Is this just the first wave?"

"Regardless, the sooner we get back groundside, the better," replied Jon, "I don't wanna be hanging around here if more of those things show up."

" _Challenger_ , this is Houston," hissed the radio.

"Go ahead Houston," said Rob, "reading you loud and clear. Over."

" _Challenger_ , we're picking up an unidentified flying object in your sector. Over."

Jon frowned. "Another landing craft?"

"Negative. This object isn't heading straight down; it just executed a 90-degree turn. This thing has steering capabilities, and it's on a direct intercept course with you. ETA: 110 seconds and counting."

 _Shit_ , thought Kate to herself. The crew around her, herself included, exercised remarkable restraint in not flipping out, but all the same, the brief pause that followed showed very clearly just what was going on in everyone's mind.

"Take evasive action," commanded Rob.

"Negative, _Challenger_. Whatever this thing is, it's far faster and more maneuverable. And if it's hostile, you'll never make it away in time. Your best chance is to play dead and hope they pass you over. Power down all non-essential systems."

* * *

 **Orbit over Terra Nova(?).**

Something was wrong. Inquisitor Tarkien couldn't quite place it, but something about this operation was confusing to him, and for an Inquisitor, whose job it was to always be in the know of what exactly was going on, that was saying something. He had never been to Terra Nova before, but he had studied this world pretty extensively on the voyage here in preparation for this operation. He'd studied the charts enough to know that the coastline he could see from up here matched no known feature the dataslates. It couldn't possibly be that they had just been rerouted to another world at the last minute and he hadn't been informed of it (and if that was indeed the case, then trust him, _heads would roll_ when he got back, he would see to it).

But the offending topography was not the only source of discontentment for the Inquisitor. There was also the fact that, all of a sudden, communications with the fleet had just been cut off, just like that. It couldn't be that the rebels were deploying some kind of vox scrambler because they could still contact the forces on the ground just fine. And then there was that Warp anomaly that his pilot had reported, and the damage they had taken from it.

"How extensive is the damage?" inquired Inquisitor Tarkien, clicking the button on his headset.

"My Lord," replied his pilot, Lt. Halder, who was seated in the cockpit of the Valkyrie, "system diagnostics are in. The ion rockets are completely fried. It must have been that Warp anomaly we encountered en route here. We're running on maneuvering jets right now, but once we reenter atmosphere, we'll be restricted there."

This was troubling indeed. They would eventually have to land; the Valkyrie was not equipped for extended periods of exo-atmospheric operation. In which case, they would just have to rely on the fleet to relieve them. If ordinary vox channels were inoperable, then he would have to meet up with one of the psykers and hope to send an astropathic message.

"Rebel spacecraft detected, My Lord," buzzed his headpiece, "appears disabled. Shall I blow it out of its misery?"

"Are there any lifeforms aboard?" asked the Inquisitor.

"Affirmative," replied Lt. Halder's voice, "seven humanoids showing up on auspex."

"And we know they are disabled because...?"

"They would have detected us and taken evasive actions," replied the pilot, "I suspect they may be a straggler from the fleet action, damaged and now adrift."

 _Strange_ , thought Tarkien. Truth be told, he was indeed half-tempted to just order the multi-laser be fired up and these miserable beings be put to rest there and then, if nothing else out of spite for this damnable world. But, then again, everything was off today, and perhaps these people would have useful information. "Pull us up alongside this rebel spacecraft," he ordered, "search for an entrance and get us into position for boarding."

"Yes, My Lord," replied Lt. Halder, admittedly confused but not daring to question the Inquisitor's command.

The Inquisitor then turned to face the rest of the occupants of the cramped passenger cabin - five Inquisitorial Stormtroopers assigned to his personal retinue, clad head to toe in black carapace armor, but with deep red fatigues underneath, and red faceplates. "Prepare to board enemy craft," he ordered, "we have seven humanoids aboard. Set your weapons to stun. Tear their ship apart if necessary, but I want them alive!" He looked to address the tallest one among them. "And no disintegrations!"

"As you wish, My Lord," replied the Stormtrooper Sergeant, his helmet faceplate betraying absolutely no emotion whatsoever other than cold, inhumane servitude to the Emperor.

* * *

 **9303 Lion Drive, Suburbs,**  
 **Pine Valley, State Of California.**

"JENNA!" shouted Marty's Mom as she saw someone running up their driveway.

Jennifer was exhausted, having just run pretty much halfway across town, fueled only by pure adrenaline. She could see that Marty's mom was sobbing. Behind her, Marty's dad and his sister and brother were all piling into the family's '76 Chevy Nova sedan.

"I need... use... phone," she gasped, trying to catch her breath, "let... my parents know... where I am."

Marty's Dad shook his head. "Phone lines are down."

The phone lines must have gotten swamped. Pine Valley was just a small town where nothing exciting ever really happened. Something like this goes down, and the fact that the town's phone infrastructure probably hadn't been updated since the _1950's_ really becomes apparent.

"What's going on?" asked Lauren, Marty's sister, "we saw a... a _meteor_ or missile or something land somewhere in town, and then we hear all these gunshots and explosions!"

"Where's my son?!" cried Mom.

"Marty was with me," replied Jenna, having caught her breath somewhat, "he... took off to Wendy's... said he was looking for _you_." She looked at Marty's older brother, Michael, who worked there. Indeed, he was still wearing his Wendy's shirt and apron, complete with "Where's The Beef?" stitched across the front in large and clear letters.

"Don't look at me, I ran home as soon as the shooting started!" retorted Michael, "probably gonna lose my job if manager finds out but fuck that, I wanna live!"

"Everyone, get in the car," said Dad, abruptly, "we're getting outta here!"

"We need to get Marty!" protested Mom.

"He told us to meet him south of town," said Jenna, "whatever you do, don't go downtown! It's a war zone down there!"

"She's right, everyone in, now!" barked Dad, half-shoving Mom into the car. Michael climbed into the front passenger seat, while Lauren and Jenna joined Mom in the rear-seat.

"Head to my house!" said Jenna as she fastened her seatbelt, "we live south in the hills, it'll be the safest. Don't do the interstate; it's gonna be bumper to bumper there!"

As they pulled out of the driveway, Jenna could hear Marty's mom continue to wail about finding her youngest son; she couldn't bear to tell her that her son hadn't actually run off to the Wendy's to look for his brother, but had in fact run off elsewhere, looking for someone else.

* * *

 **Interstate 80,**  
 **Pine Valley, State Of California.**

"Oh, c'mon, get outta the fuckin' way, will ya, retard!" yelled Bill Tannen, by then quite purple in the face. He honked his car horn incessantly as if expecting that to make things any better. He was sitting in his prized black '65 Mustang convertible - under normal circumstances, he wouldn't dare this beautiful girl out of the garage except to show-off, and just got around in a station wagon. But when the shooting and explosions started, Bill's first thought was that the Russians must be attacking, and to drop whatever he was doing, grab his most prized possession, and beat it the hell outta town. Now if only he could beat it outta town _faster_...

In front of him, in the panic, an 18-wheeler had rear-ended the person in front, and traffic had ground to a halt. Even the cars cutting the lanes to drive down the shoulder had stopped.

Just then, there was a **_crash_** somewhere behind him, followed by screaming. He looked behind, and his blood nearly froze in his veins. Stomping its way up the onramp, like a serial killer, there was what could be best described as like a huge black-armored robo-knight. Fuck, what the hell was it? Who made it? Russians? Japanese? Thing must have stood, what, 9 foot, maybe 10 foot tall. In its right hand it gripped the gnarliest-looking hammer you'd ever seen, small sparks of lightning shooting out of its head like it was a prop in some heavy metal music video, and it was swinging it left and right, smashing cars (and their drivers within them).

 _ **CRASH!**_ The knight-thing swung his hammer to his right, smashing it into the driver's door of a '74 Jeep Cherokee. Sparks flared up from where the hammerhead struck the door, there was a crack like thunder, and before Bill's eyes, half the vehicle seemed to instantly melt or crumple away from the blow, including the driver. _**BOOM!**_ The knight then, in one motion, brought the hammer up, swung it above its head, and brought it down onto the roof of the car to its left, a Chrysler Town  & Country station wagon. In a split second before the hammer struck, Bill could see there was more than one people inside it - a _family_. The hammer impacted on the roof, more sparks and lightning, and the roof of the car buckled in like a one-ton boulder had come tumbling down a mountain and landed on it. If the vehicle's occupants were screaming or crying or begging for mercy, Bill never heard it above the noise from the rest of the highway, but his mind filled in the rest.

 _Shit!_ , thought Bill, and he swerved to the right, floored the gas pedal, and pulled off the road. Gunning the Windsor V8 engine forward, he shook and bobbed up and down as the car's suspension struggled to handle the terrain. Needless to say, these cars hadn't exactly been made with all-terrain capability in mind. Oh god, she was gonna need a visit to the mechanic after this, but right now, all Bill could think about was putting as much distance as possible between him and whatever that _thing_ was. There were grinding sounds as the car's bottom scraped rocks and plants and uneven ground below.

In front of him and behind him, other drivers had the same idea, pulling off the highway and driving across the grass and rocky ground. He could also see some drivers abandoning their vehicles and running for the hills as fast as their legs could carry. Ahead of him, a mother carrying a baby stepped out of the highway onto the grass; she didn't look before she ran, and she ran right into the path of Bill's car. _Her loss_ , he thought to himself as he kept on plowing straight ahead, not even trying to brake or swerve, and there was a _**bump**_ and a scream as mother and child were struck and pulled under the car.

 _C'mon, you can do it girl_ , thought Bill, keeping the pedal floored. Suddenly, up ahead, he saw a Toyota pickup truck pulling out of the highway, also right into his path. The truck's rear was heavily laden with something, and it wasn't going fast at all. Bill swore and hit the brakes, but it was too late; the car's tires skidded over slippery grass and loose soil, and he collided into the pickup's rear. Bill smashed his head forward and went out cold.

He didn't know how long he was out. Might have been a few seconds, or hours. But when he came to, he was in agony. Bill moaned. There was a stinging pain across his head slumped against the wheel; there was a huge gash there, and he was losing blood - lots of it. The Toyota was gone - it must have not been too badly damaged in the collision and simply drove off. But the entire front of Bill's car was smashed, the front windshield was shattered, and the entire hood of the car was completely covered in something dark and putrid smelling. Turns out, when he rear-ended the pickup, he caused whatever cargo it was carrying to fall out and empty onto his hood.

 _Ugh_ , moaned Bill, _I hate manure!_

Summoning whatever strength he could, he lifted his left hand and unfastened the seatbelt (hadn't really done him much good though now, had it?). And then, slowly, he tried to climb out of his car - tried to, that is. He had lost a lot of blood and his senses were dull. Instead of taking a step out, he simply slid out and collapsed onto the ground... onto more of the manure. Ugh, this was the absolute worst!

Actually, no, as it turns out, it could still get a lot worse: as Bill lay there on the manure, slowly bleeding out, his blurred vision noted something stomping in his direction, something plodding and heavy.


	7. Sharp Dressed Man

**Chapter VI:**

 **SHARP DRESSED MAN**

 **Dorsia, Borough Of Manhattan, New York City,  
State Of New York, USA.**

"Gentlemen, may I take your order?" asked the waitress, a cute brunette.

Carter had made up his mind by then, but he was still flipping through the leather-bound menu, each page printed on thick vellum, just to take a last look at all the items there were. Getting lunchtime reservations here was a pain with the place fully booked for up to six months out, so might as well savor every minute he was here. He smiled. "Get me the lobster special, hold the Américaine."

"Think you can eat a whole lobster by yourself?" mused Jordan, seated next to him.

"Who cares, I earned it," retorted Carter, casting him a sharp look. Jordan was dressed almost completely the same as he was - everything apart from the tie and cufflinks and the shoes. It irked him to see someone else sporting a navy blue wool Armani suit in almost the exact same cut, with a lighter blue shirt. And he had an Omega watch just like Carter did, but a newer and shinier one. Carter didn't like this at all; this Christmas, he promised himself he'd one-up him and treat himself.

"I'll have the dry aged top sirloin," said Jordan, after giving it some thought.

"Uh... _linguini con ricci di mare_ here," said Ted, who was sitting next to Jordon. Hearing him try to pronounce Italian in that Texas drawl of his was pretty amusing, although Carter had to give him credit for at least trying.

"I'll get the Beausoleil Oysters please, six pieces, with the side caprese," added Steve, who was sitting across from Ted, next to Carter.

"Caviar Tartare here," said Chad, finishing up the list; he was sitting at the head of the table, between Jordan and Carter. Chad also wore Armani, but his suit was nowhere near as fine as either of them.

"And be a darling and fetch us another basket while you're at it, will ya?" said Jordan, handing the empty bread-basket back to the waitress. "But no olive bread this time, please? Fuckin' hate olives."

"You seemed to like the olive oil," quipped Chad.

"Yeah, cos it's all the good stuff about olives and none of the bad!" replied Jordan.

"Thank you, gentlemen," replied the waitress, jotting all their orders down on her notepad. She took the bread-basket, and strode off to the kitchens.

No sooner was she gone when Ted was already pulling out the little pen-sized canister and stainless steel mini spoon he always kept in his shirt breast pocket. With great care, he unscrewed the lid on the canister, gingerly poured a tiny amount of the powder out onto the spoon, taking great pains not to spill any of it, expensive as it was, even for a man of Ted's means. Holding his left nostril closed, Ted stuck the mini-spoon up his right nostril, and inhaled hard.

"Wooo!" remarked Ted. "Ah! That sure hit the spot." He offered it to the others. "Lil' tootsky, anyone? Goes well with lunch."

"Nah, I'm good, man," said Chad, "but thanks." The others also politely declined.

"So, gentlemen, as I was saying, silver prices shot up all of last year like a rocket; they've been pretty stable so far this year, but the market as a whole has improved drastically since that crash back in '80. I'm telling you right now: silver futures is where it's gonna be at."

"Well, that sounds a helluva lot better than what Steve here was proposing," remarked Jordan, casually lighting up a cigarette. "Him and his... what's it called? _Miniature wargaming_?"

"What's that? That like that movie that came out last year, but with midgets?"

"Nah, it's basically when a bunch of grown men like us decide to play around with dice and a bunch of lousy plastic toys instead of using their time like we do, you know, making _money_ , doing something _good_ with our lives."

[Cough] "Losers..." [cough]

"Jesus, that sounds awful! Seriously, I dunno, even feeding starving kids in - wherever it is that's got the famine goin' on right now - _Sri Lanka!_ Yes, that! Yeah, working for a non-profit sounds like a way more constructive use of your time!"

Jordan and Carter both snickered at the mention of the word "non-profit" - what a bizarre word! A real oxymoron, like military intelligence.

"Now, now! Guys, let's hear Steve out; he makes a good enough case, maybe this will be the next big thing for Steinem Oakmont & Co."

"Yeah, it has potential!" insisted Steve, in defense of his idea, "it's pretty popular over in Britain."

"Uh-huh, sure, and you know what else is popular in Britain?"

"What?"

"The metric system! British spelling! British food! Driving on the wrong side of the road! Soccer! Rugby! How many of those ever made it big here in America?"

"Wait a minute, I thought they also had feet and pounds in Britain..."

"Yeah, and a lot of British stuff _did_ make it big here! Betty and I got tickets to go see David Bowie at The Garden."

Ted coughed. "Faggot..." he mumbled.

"What?! How _dare_ you say that?! David Bowie is a _god_."

"It's true..."

"Fuck you, man!"

"Guys, guys!" said Chad, waving his arms about. "Here, let's get another round. Hmmm, looks like we'll be needin' a refill soon."

"I'll get us another bottle," said Carter.

"Didn't she say this was the last bottle of the Dom Pérignon '66?" quipped Steve.

"Jesus Christ," scowled Jordan, "after all the effort to get a table here."

"Jordy, it's fine, just get something cheaper," said Chad, lighting up a cigarette, "honestly, I can't taste the fucking difference. What's so special about the '66 vintage anyway? As long as it's alcoholic, that's all I care!"

"You guys get a bottle of whatever, just get me another Absolut martini, straight up," cut in Ted.

"Sure thing," said Carter. He then turned and waved his hand to get the waitress's attention. He could see her, a couple tables away. She didn't look busy at all, she was just standing there, staring off blankly into space. "Uh, excuse me?" asked Carter, waving his hand again, "uh, hello?"

The waitress, however, did not seem to notice him. "Hey! You!" called Carter, but she continued to ignore him, staring at something. Her eyes seemed to widen slightly.

 _Stupid bitch_ , thought Carter to himself, _that's another couple bucks off the tip for you!_ What the hell was she looking at anyway? Just out of curiosity, he turned to look in the direction she was staring. Ah, right, the TV. Of course. Right now the volume was turned down low, but it seemed to be showing some action movie or something or... no, wait, that was the news. There was what looked like some riot going on; shots of police in riot gear, fires burning somewhere, wrecked cars, smashed storefronts. This was probably in Sri Lanka or Pakistan or some other poor-dumb-fuckistan or wherever shitty ass third world country and...

The next shot showed an American flag, forlornly waving in the breeze while smoke came billowing out from somewhere behind it. And the headlines below flashed: AMERICA UNDER ATTACK.

Carter heard murmurs and gasps from the other tables around them.

"Oh my god," murmured one person sitting at the table next to them.

"Put up the volume!" said another. Whoever had the remote control did precisely that, enabling Carter and everyone else to hear what was being said.

"...for those of you tuning in just now, what you are seeing is Hollywood Boulevard. Police have cordoned off the area, but it appears that whoever or whatever they are, they're heading in the direction of Beverly Hills..."

"...what you are about to see may shock you. Viewer discretion is advised..."

"...no official word yet from the White House..."

"...so far, civil defense across the nation has yet to issue any warning of an impending nuclear attack..."

"...MAMA! WHERE IS MY MOMMY?!...[unintelligible sobbing]..."

"...California Highway Patrol reporting disturbances along Interstate 80, around the towns of Pine Valley and Meadow Vista..."

"...Chief of the Miami-Dade Police Department currently unavailable for comment..."

"...this just in: we are now receiving unconfirmed reports of similar attacks underway in London..."

"...entire school full of children..."

"...Vice Presidential Debate tonight in Philadelphia has been canceled..."

"...this just in: President Reagan expected to address the nation at..."

"...flurry of activity here at Carswell Field, Fort Worth..."

Everyone around him was frozen, their eyes staring blankly at the TV as the gruesome images unfolded before them, one after another. Carter, however, had different priorities on his mind.

He reached into his leather briefcase under his chair and pulled something out - it was a large grey block, the size and shape (and certainly the _weight_ ) of a brick, but with buttons and an antenna too. Motorola DynaTAC 8000X, brand new and completely state of the art. Only just came out this year - now this was something that Carter could be proud he had that no one else at his table did (though they probably would be getting them soon anyway). But today, it could mean the difference between life and death. With fingers expertly honed by hours of sitting at his office computer, Carter punched in the number and dialed. He heard it ringing on the other side.

 _C'mon_ , thought Carter, _pick up Manny, don't fail me now..._

"Hello?" came Manny's voice over the phone. In the background, Carter could hear the frantic but familiar hustle and bustle at Steinem Oakmont & Co. _Thank God!_ Manny was still there at the office, hadn't gone off for his lunch break yet.

"Manny! It's Carter," he began, "what's going on your side?"

"Oh God, I was just about to call you! It's... it's a fucking nightmare!" stammered Manny, "stocks are plummeting by the second! We were trading at 40 bucks a share just an hour ago! But... have you seen the news? We've got the big TV here tuned into CNN and... oh my God, Carter, it's awful! Shit. Carter, people are fucking _dying_ out there!"

"Manny! Forget those people, I need you to stay focused!" barked Carter, "Don't look at the TV, look at the stock board! Look, I'm heading back right now, but until then, I need you to follow my instructions. Can you do that? Manny? Hello? Hello? Hello!"

The phone started to hiss with static and Manny's voice came out broken: "... here ... need... dump stock ... 16 bucks ... share ..."

"What's that? I can't hear you!" shouted Carter.

Too late, the phone died. Low battery. Carter swore and nearly threw the phone in rage. Damn devices, these things. You'd think that for costing four thousand bucks, they would at least make a decent battery. After today's experience, he would find it hard to believe how the hell these useless pieces of shit called "cellular telephones" could ever catch on.

Without even saying anything to his buddies, who were still glued to the TV screen (Ted, especially - his family came from Dallas, which, from the looks of it, was now in the process of going up in smoke), Carter abruptly got up and ran to the counter at the front of Dorsia. He was going to ask the waitress there to use their phone for an emergency, though when he got there, he saw that she was already using it.

"Dad!" cried the waitress, sobbing, "I know, I'm watching it right now! Oh God..."

Carter half wanted to yank the phone away from her, but decided to try one of the payphones outside.

It was the lunch hour, and on a beautiful autumn day with a crisp blue sky. And yet a strange silence had descended like a thick fog over the bustling streets of Manhattan. Traffic ground to a halt, but no-one was honking or anything. People were standing still, not speaking or anything, which was weird in New York under any circumstances. Carter saw one group of folks huddled around the front windows of the Sony shop across the street, trying to catch a glimpse of what was being shown on the brand new Japanese TV sets they had on display.

Half a block down from Dorsia was where the nearest payphones were, just outside the entrance to the subway. Carter ran like mad, even if Armani and Gucci were not exactly made with athletics in mind.

There was a young girl already standing inside the phone booth. She must have been maybe 15, and dressed more fittingly for someone twice that age. She was talking to someone when Carter physically grabbed her and pulled her out. "HEY!" she cried in protest, kicking at him.

"Move along, Iris!" sneered Carter, and she seemed to get the hint right away not to fuck with him, given how much older and bigger he was. He hung up, then pulled out his wallet and... only then, he remembered he carried all his cash on him in hundred-dollar bills. No quarters.

Carter banged his head on the phone in despair. " _FFFUUUCCCKKK!"_ he cried out. There were tears welling up in his eyes. This was so unfair. He had only _just_ made his first million over the previous fiscal year. Next year, he could have been able to get a flat in that complex on West 81st with the pool and everything that he wanted so badly. But now, in the blink of an eye, the world had changed. The markets were in a tailspin - in the time it would take him to get his car from the valet (because fuck the subway! Only thugs, hoes, and losers ride that filthy graffiti-covered rust bucket!), drive back down to the WTC plaza, park, take the elevator up to Steinem Oakmont  & Co up in the North Tower... well, on second thoughts, maybe there was nothing he could do about it now anyway, even if he could make that call.

By now it was inevitable: the economy was going to plunge into depression. Banks would close, businesses would go bankrupt, shopping malls and supermarkets across the nation would lie empty and abandoned; and then the government was going to have to step in and take over everything, impose price controls, raise taxes, lock up the great golden bull back up in its pen, and that would be the end of _everything_. The end of freedom. The end of America. _The end of life as we know it!_

Carter felt weak. His legs were like jelly, just thinking about it all. He leaned back against the wall of the phone booth and looked up, as if heaven above had all the answers to his grief. And if heaven above (or at least the ceiling of the phone booth) could talk back down to him at that moment, it would probably remind him of one of the central tenants of that one religion that Carter had always been a devout follower of: _the market giveth, and the market taketh_.

* * *

 **Naval Station Norfolk, Norfolk,**  
 **State Of Virginia, USA.**

Alarm klaxons were blaring. "Attention all crew! Man your battle-stations! This is not a drill! I repeat: this is not a drill!"

Captain Gerald Gneckow emerged from the steel bulkhead and strode onto the command bridge. "What's going on?"

"Sir!" spoke up the first lieutenant, "orders just in; we're moving to DEFCON-1."

" _Christ_..."

"There's an enemy force on the ground not too far from here," continued the officer, "making their way towards Richmond. Ground forces are going to try to lure them away. It's a risky move, but we need to keep them away from major population centers. Our orders are to set a trap and..."

"Wait a minute, enemy forces _on the ground?_ " said Gneckow, "how the hell did the Ruskies...?"

"It's not them, sir. It's... someone else."

The Captain was confused, even after asking the First Mate to take a minute to give him the sitrep on what was going on. As he listened, outside, he could see similar commotion on the deck of the _USS John F. Kennedy_ , moored nearby.

The telephone at the captain's station rang. Gneckow picked it up.

"This is the _USS Iowa_ ," he began, "reporting for duty. Awaiting further instructions." As he listened to the dispatcher on the other side, he took a moment to take a good look out of the forward viewing port, at the six _massive_ 16-inch guns pointing away from him.


	8. In The Air Tonight

_Thank you everyone for the support! A couple things:_

 _1) Event Horizon is on hiatus for now, but I hope to get it started back up again some time in the not-too-distant future. Fear not, it is not abandoned, but merely in the process of being reworked. In particular, Books 2 and 3 have become a bit of a mess, and I think I may delete them entirely and start over._

 _2) I've been getting a lot of comments and questions on the identity of The Emperor. Minor spoiler here, but I can safely confirm that he *will* most certainly be appearing at some point, just not in the way readers may be expecting..._

* * *

 **Chapter VIII:**

 **IN THE AIR TONIGHT**

 **11,000m above the Sea Of Japan.**

Korean Airlines Flight 69 was on its way from Paris Charles De Gaulle to Seoul Gimpo International Airport. It was a long-haul voyage; because Soviet and Chinese airspace was strictly off-limits, the flight had to be made westward, over the Arctic, with a refueling stopover in Anchorage, Alaska, instead of simply flying east. But they were now coming to the end of it, and they would be soon begin making their descent for landing.

Seated in the pilot's seat was Captain Kim Yunsoo. To his right was seated First Officer Jeong Wonho. Just behind them, the chair of their Flight Engineer, Min Myungseok, was empty; Min had decided to step out momentarily and take a final bathroom break before landing.

"I wonder what's taking him so long," muttered Jeong, "c'mon, dinner wasn't that bad!"

"I've had better," shrugged Kim, "back when I first joined, they actually used to put some thought and care into what they served; you know, actually took pride in their work. This was when we still had the onboard smoking lounges too. Now, it's all just cutting corners."

"Really?" replied the younger officer, "I thought all you had 'back in the day' was a flask of tea and a packet of sandwiches!"

"Hey, I'm not _that_ old!" shrugged Kim. Jeong laughed.

"Hmmm... Min doesn't have a wife or a girlfriend back home, waiting for him, does he?" wondered Jeong. "Do you think he might be...?"

"Whatever you're thinking right now, drop it, thank you very much."

There was a pause as Jeong took a sip from a cup of coffee he kept in his seat cup-holder. "Well, regardless, the coffee's terrible."

"Agreed," replied Kim, "that's why I only drink tea."

The Boeing 747-200 was a fine machine, and Captain Kim was pleased to note that it seemed the fleet of them would continue to bear the old livery for quite a few years to come; so far, only the newest jets and a few of the smaller ones had gotten the new paint job. Personally, he hated the new look - each jet painted light blue and emblazoned with the new red and blue _Taegeuk_ symbol. In theory, that didn't sound too bad, except that apparently the best version that the airline could come up with had a big white band down the center of it that made it look like the damn _Pepsi_ logo!

Though he could also understand that the management wanted to make a fresh start, rebrand the airline after the string of disasters they'd had lately. And they probably also wanted to make themselves more easily distinguishable from their competitors, since the old logo did look a lot like JAL's. But honestly, the red bird symbol still looked so much better, more noble. At least none of the jumbo jets that he could think of were due for repainting yet, and for now that suited him just fine. Even if he spent all his time here in cockpit and couldn't actually see the outside, he still liked to take pride in flying a beautiful-looking machine.

"Calling KAL-69," broke the radio, "calling KAL-69. This is KAL-419. Do you read? Over."

"This is KAL-69, reading you loud and clear," replied Kim, recognizing the voice, "Captain Yu, I presume? Over."

Captain Yu Imwoo was the one at the helm of Flight 419, an Airbus A300 flying in the opposite direction, back to Anchorage, but then onward to Amsterdam. By the time one gets to Kim's length of service, the pilots tend to become quite a tight and close-knit bunch.

"Just a word of warning, the entertainment center at the pilots' lounge is out of service," warned Captain Yu. "I was just there. Over."

"Thanks for the heads-up," replied Kim. He smiled. "But don't worry, I'm taking a well-deserved break after this one. Over."

"I'm not," remarked Jeong, glumly. His next flight would be the route to Tokyo-Haneda, but his home was down in Busan, so he'd have to spend the day at the airport.

"By the way, we've got a VIP onboard with us tonight," spoke Captain Yu, "you'll never believe this but sitting just behind us in First Class is..."

* * *

While the pilots were having their little banter, the stewardesses were out and about, serving coffee and tea.

Seated near the rear down in economy class, 12 year old Ahn Soonae was sitting by herself. She'd had a wonderful time in Paris; mom worked at Samsung's office there - she seemed to prefer living and working there then back home, which made it slightly easier for Ahn to accept that whatever reason her parents had separated, they seemed to at least be living well. She had a lovely little apartment the company had rented out for her, and Ahn had enjoyed every minute of her stay there. One day, she would learn English and maybe French too and come and join her mother living in Europe, or maybe even live in America!

But now was time to return home. Her mom had dropped her at the airport, and the airline staff were nice enough to have someone help her find her way to the plane. Her father would be picking her up from the airport even though they would be arriving so early in the morning.

Even though it was not long after midnight, the flight attendants were treating it like breakfast, going about, pushing the drinks cart up and down the aisle. Ahn just asked for orange juice. She yawned - it was a tiring journey, even if she had spent most of the whole flight sleeping (because there honestly wasn't anything to do; she was short and had trouble trying to look over the seat in front of her to watch whatever movies they were showing on the big screen). The very nice old man sitting next to her had also slept for most of the flight - right now, he was still asleep, with ear-buds and an eye cover. She wondered if she should wake him up now before the drinks cart was gone, but decided against it.

Instead, she pulled out her most prized possession - it was a Sony Walkman her father had bought for her last year. It was already loaded with the mix-tape that mother had made for her and given to her while they were together in Paris. She put on her headphones, and pressed play. She smiled; not long now, and they would be on the ground again.

* * *

 **Somewhere over Jakar Continent(?),**  
 **Northern Hemisphere,**  
 **Planet Terra Nova, Terra Nova System.**

Lt. Miranda "Miri" Volantis, Imperial Navy, frowned. Something was not right. The ion rockets had gotten fried for some reason during reentry but curiously, the rest of the systems hadn't, so she could still fly just fine, it's just that for the time being she would be restricted to staying within atmosphere. Usually, this would not have been a problem as she would just have to wait for a lander to pick her up and take her back to the fleet and get an admech to take a look.

Except that now that she was restricted to atmosphere, she couldn't simply pull up back to orbit and try to get a bigger picture look on just where on the planet were they. It was nighttime, but the Valkyrie's scanners could pick up enough of the surrounding topography that it could try to match it up with the navigational charts pre-loaded on her auspex. And for some reason, it was unable to get a positive lockdown on just where were they.

Valkyrie-7 was supposed to touch down somewhere in the middle of Jakar, the largest continent on Terra Nova. She was supposed to be accompanying several other landers in her squadron who would be deploying a large Tempestus force on the ground to seize Krenek spaceport. Two of the valks would remain there to provide air support for the op, but she and the other would then leave to perform seek-and-destroy missions against the rebel's own aircraft.

Now, however, from the sounds of it, she had landed up several hundred kilometers away from the others. In the confusion and chaos of reentry, she had pressed on, trusting the coordinates in the navigation computer, and Sgt. Hartmann and his men had grav-chuted out in mid-air, leaving just Miri and her co-pilot, Skiff. It wasn't until after the troopers had dropped out that the scans had shown a landscape and nearby cityscapes that absolutely did not match up with the heading she was absolutely sure she had taken when they were still in orbit just minutes earlier.

She was sweating now. The fact that she may have just possibly have deployed Hartmann's squad in completely the wrong location was not exactly the kind of news she would want to break to her superiors later. Though at the very least, contact with Marklin's Valkyrie had shown that he too was suffering from the same navigational error. Marklin was her immediate superior on this assignment, so if anyone was going to have to take the rap...

"This is Marklin," hissed the vox, "Volantis, do you copy?"

"Loud and clear, sir," she replied, "any luck in contacting the fleet?"

"Negative, though it looks like we're not the only ones experiencing ion thruster issues."

"Do you think it could have been those Warp anomalies we encountered on our way down here?"

"Honestly, I don't know what to make of it," replied Marklin, "I thought we were goners when I saw mine. Whatever it was, it must also be what's affecting our vox-casters."

"I've had Skiff take a look at it and it appears to be functioning," said Miri.

"No offense to Skiff, but he is not a techpriest."

"None taken," remarked Lt. Skiff, seated in the seat right behind Miri, sarcastically.

Marklin ignored him: "whatever's going on, the mission stays the same. Stay alert: I've come under heavy fire from rebel anti-air defenses in my sector."

"Roger that," said Miri, "I'll double back around and return to Hartmann's unit."

"Negative, I've already have that covered," said Marklin, "I want you to stick to the plan. Seek out any remaining rebel air forces in this region and intercept. Is that understood?"

"Affirmative."

"Speak of the heretic," spoke up Skiff, "auspex is showing a large bogey in this sector, ten o'clock. Range: 100 klicks."

"I see it," said Miri (no, she couldn't actually see it - it was night and even the largest aircraft would be invisible from 100km away; rather she "saw it" in the form of a small icon now showing up on her helmet auspex, off in the distance). "Moving to intercept."

* * *

 **VVS Air Base at Chuguyevka,**  
 **Primorsky-Krai, Russian SFSR, USSR.**

No sooner had the first of the invaders' strange landing crafts made impact in Moscow when the order had gone out for all forces across the Union be put on highest alert possible. At Chuguyevka, this was no different. It was barely past midnight, but the airfield had become a flurry of action. Reports were coming in every minute. Moscow was hit first. Then Leningrad, then Chelyabinsk not too long after. No one knew who they were, only two things: it wasn't the capitalists, but they definitely weren't friendly either. News was that the streets of the major cities had become warzones, the attackers killing everyone on sight. Then came the reports that there were other attacks too - even in America! And when radar notified them of an unidentified signal somewhere over Manchuria but heading in their direction, everyone leapt into action.

Lt. Rodion Sokolov, 530th Fighter Aviation Regiment of the 1st Air Army, jogged out onto the tarmac. Up ahead, the ground crew were already firing up Comrade Dasha (as he affectionately called her). The men stood back as Sokolov scaled the metal staircase, heaved himself over and into the chair. He took a moment to adjust his helmet, set his breather mask in the "open" position for take-off, and then fastened his seat-belts. He also took a moment to flex the wing flaps, rudder, intake ramps, and afterburner nozzles. Everything checked out. He motioned for the ground crew, and they stood back. The open canopy was pulled down sideways and closed.

Within moments, the Mikoyan MiG-25 had taxied out of its position, accelerated to take-off, and was in the air, rapidly climbing. Within minutes, he was joined by his fellow wingmen, Lieutenants Voronin and Kozlov.

"This is Gold Leader, standing by, over," spoke Sokolov.

Several hundred kilometers away, there was a lonely Tupolev-126 flying out somewhere over the Sea Of Japan, on a routine patrol looking out for _Yanki_ spy-planes or (God forbid) bombers and submarine-launched missiles. It was an older craft (indeed, probably the last one of its class still in service that Sokolov knew of), but still serviceable, and right now it was keeping a close eye on this sector and relaying valuable information.

"Gold Leader, this is Orel-35," came the voice of one of the Tupolev's crewmen over the radio, "confidence is high, I repeat, confidence is high... _Da_ , we have unidentified signal at 42.823200 / 133.826969, heading on a bearing 128 degrees, at approximately 1,100 km/h. Altitude: difficult to determine. Origin: unknown. Believed to be an attack craft of sorts in connection with the ongoing attacks on Beijing and the Korean DMZ."

" _Tak tochno_ ," replied Sokolov, "affirmative. Moving to intercept unidentified signal. Over."

"We will keep you notified of its position," replied Orel-35, "note: signal has now altered course, bearing 95 degrees. Current heading..."

* * *

 **Eastern Coastline of Jakar Continent(?),**  
 **Northern Hemisphere,**  
 **Planet Terra Nova, Terra Nova System.**

The aircraft that appeared in her targeting auspex was a curious one: slow, lumbering, still using _propellers_. She had seen these in use before on some of the less developed worlds out on the frontiers, but this seemed out-of-place for a formerly wealthy world like Terra Nova. Also, the big red star symbol that shown up very clearly on auspex despite how dark it was outside did not match any of the briefings they had been given beforehand. But orders were orders.

With the squeeze of the trigger, the Valkyrie's nose lascannon opened up, a bright lance of red light appearing to connect the two craft almost instantaneously. It burned for only a microsecond, but in that time, it had completely cleaved the rogue aircraft in half like a hot knife through butter. Miri was surprised but not by much: rotorcraft were usually not that heavily armored because rotors by nature provide far less lifting power than repulsors and anti-gravs.

"Target destroyed!" said Skiff.

"Yes, I can see it," said Miri.

"Next target," continued Skiff, checking the navigational instruments, "long-range scanners are showing a much larger rebel aircraft due south of our position, heading west, altitude of 11 klicks. It as yet seems unaware of our presence."

Wherever they were on Terra Nova, it was curious how completely primitive, disorganized, and uncoordinated their air power was. One would think that the pilot of the craft she had just downed would have notified this other rebel aircraft of their presence. Still, though, she couldn't exactly complain about an easier job either, could she? Sometimes the Emperor does go easy on them every once in a while. She piloted the aircraft along the new heading as per the path Skiff had outlined for them on the auspex.

* * *

"Orel-35 is down. I repeat: Orel-35 is down!"

" _Blyad'_ ," cursed Voronin.

"Hostility confirmed," said Sokolov. _Well_ , he thought, _I suppose the Tu-126s are now officially retired from service for good_.

"Where is target?" asked Kozlov.

"Gold Unit, this is ground control," buzzed the radio, "ground radar is tracking hostile target heading away from Orel-35's last reported position, bearing 175. Note: on current trajectory, it appears to be leaving for international airspace."

"Permission to pursue," said Sokolov, calmly.

"You kidding me?" remarked Voronin, "it's the _Pindos_ ' problem now!"

"Permission granted, Gold Leader," said the radio, in spite of Voronin's remarks. There was a brief pause. "New orders from high command: any and all enemy aircraft are to intercepted - captured if possible, destroyed if necessary. Please try to herd target back onto our airspace, so that ground defenses may disable it. We are contacting KPAAF right now to coordinate."

" _Tak tochno_ , Comrade-General," replied Sokolov, "well, you heard them. Onwards!"

"So we're inviting KPA but not PLA to the party?" mused Voronin.

"They probably have their hands full as it is," replied Sokolov. To be fair, they weren't exactly on the best of terms right now - suffice to say, _India_ of all countries was proving to be a far more loyal friend. Maybe _not_ sharing one of the longest land borders had something to do with it. But enough of that, on with the mission. There was a confirmed hostile target now that needed to be confronted.

Sokolov pushed his left hand forward on the throttles, gunning the twin Tumansky R-15 turbojet engines forward.


	9. Aces High

**Chapter IX:**

 **ACES HIGH**

 **11km above the Sea Of Japan.**

Once Flight Engineer Min was back in the cockpit and seated (having apologized for how long he took to the effect of blaming something that disagreed with him, though Jeong's suggestions were kind of hard not to think about), Captain Kim decided to make the call.

"Calling Okadama Air Traffic Control," spoke Captain Kim, nervously, "calling Okadama Air Traffic Control, this is KAL-69. Over."

"This is Okadama," replied the radio, in English albeit heavily Japanese-accented, "reading you loud and clear. Go ahead, KAL-69. Over."

"I've just lost contact with KAL-419," said Kim, "can you confirm KAL-419's position? Over."

"Negative," replied the controller over at Sapporo-Okadama, on Hokkaido, "KAL-419 has just dropped off primary radar, and their transponder is no longer active. KAL-69, be advised: the JSDF has just issued a nationwide alert. All non-military aircraft are being instructed to land. There is an emergency in effect." Captain Kim turned to look at First Officer Jeong, who looked right back at him; they both had concerned expressions on their faces. Ground control continued: "Alert is addressed to all aircraft in Japan airspace; similar alert may be in effect in Korea. You had better check in with your destination. Over."

"Roger that. Over and out."

"Calling KAL-69, this is Seoul-Gimpo Air Traffic Control. Break break. Calling KAL-69, please respond, this is an emergency."

"This is Flight 69," responded Kim, "reading you loud and clear. Over."

"USFK and ROKAF have just issued an order grounding all civil aviation. Over."

"Understood," replied Kim, "shall we divert to another airport? Over."

"Negative. As it stands, your current route is still the best option; we anticipate that Busan, Daegu, and Jeju will all be operating well over nighttime capacity. Maintain your current heading, but increase speed to five-seven-zero knots. We'll try to get you groundside as soon as possible. Over."

"Uh, negative," said Kim, looking at the dashboard instruments closely, "at five seven zero knots, we'll have little fuel left for holding. Over."

"We'll keep your landing window open," replied the radio. "You'll have priority when you arrive. Over."

"Wilco," said Kim. "Uh... question. Over."

"Go ahead, Flight 69. Over."

"Any news on Flight 419's current status? Over."

There was a pause.

"Negative. Just stay focused on landing first, Flight 69. Over and out."

This couldn't be good at all: Captain Yu was a veteran pilot and so he would never simply have vanished like that unless... Kim found himself thinking about Captain Chun and what happened to him last year, and felt a shiver down his spine. If the Communists were attacking again, that would be a good reason for both Korea and Japan to be calling a state of national emergency at the same time...

"Captain?" asked Jeong. Kim snapped out of it. "Setting speed to five seven zero knots."

Kim nodded. He would worry about Captain Yu and everyone on that flight once they were back on the ground. Right now, they had a plane to land.

* * *

Lt. Mira Volantis was surprised at how quickly both aircraft simply disintegrated in mid-air from the lascannon. The second aircraft had been heading in the opposite direction; this time it had been equipped with turbofans instead of propellers, was also larger, and had completely no idea it was being pursued by her until she was practically on top of it.

These rebel air forces really were disorganized, weak, and uncoordinated - it was almost as if they had poured most of their resources into the fleet and starfighter force that the Navy had routed just prior to beginning the landing op. Not that she was complaining or anything. Neither her nor Marklin nor anyone else in their squadron was having any success at contacting the fleet and calling for additional fighter, bomber, and ground-attack support, but as long as resistance was as light as it seemed right now, it seemed they would do for now. Several times she'd found herself glancing up through their canopy at the night-sky above them and wondering if those... things they'd encountered on the way down here were responsible for cutting off all their communications outside of the planet's atmosphere.

Up ahead, she had been trailing a third large craft for the last few minutes; this target had been identified by the long-range auspex, and the details were now starting to show up. Long-range scanners showed it as having a similar appearance to the second craft, down to the red bird sigil adorning its tailfin. It was similar in basic shape; however the auspex noted that it was larger, had four wing-mounted pods (which were either weapons or engines) instead of just two, and had a smooth "hump" structure adorning the front half of it, giving it the appearance almost like a Sky-Whale. For someone serving in the Navy like her, used to the angular, sharp edges of standard Imperial attack craft, it always seemed a pity to have to destroy whatever unique flyers were deployed on other worlds. Her target computer began lining up a targeting solution...

* * *

"More orange juice?" offered the stewardess.

Ahn Soonae lifted up one of the speakers on her headphones and replied: "I'm fine. But thank you!" The stewardess nodded.

There was a _**ding!**_ as the "fasten seatbelt" signs came on throughout the cabin. "This is your Captain speaking..." began the intercom, although Ahn didn't wait to hear the rest of it as she put her headphones back on. Whatever he was saying, though, must have been important, because the stewardess immediately stopped what she was doing, and began to walk briskly towards the front of the plane. The younger man in the business suit sitting across the aisle from Ahn looked annoyed as he was about to be served next.

 ** _BBOOOOOMMMM!_**

It was the loudest noise she had ever heard - so loud and sudden that she heard it even over the music playing in her headphones. It was followed by a _**ROAR**_ , like thunder. The entire cabin shook violently. Ahn cried out in shock, and in pain, both from the intense body-shaking thud, and also from her own ears which felt as though they were _screaming_ at her.

The roaring continued, but now it was less like thunder and more like the strongest gust of wind howling you could imagine. The air all around her turned freezing cold and misty, like someone had suddenly let a tornado out of a bottle. Small personal items - books, magazines, shoes, drink cups, stuffed animals - all these small objects were picked up by the rush of air and went shooting around the cabin like bullets.

The cabin continued to shake viciously like there was an earthquake going on. Overhead luggage compartments up and down fell open; bags and boxes came tumbling out onto the heads of those seated right under them.

People were screaming and yelling, but even these were being drowned out by noise of the air rushing around. Ahn too tried to scream, but found herself short of breathe, gasping, her mind spinning.

Something flopped down right in front of her, a plastic bag and yellow rubber mouthpiece attached to a long cord. A memory flashed through Ahn's mind, of the little safety demonstration they had given just before they had taken off hours ago, the stewardess standing at the front of the cabin and telling people what to do. _In the event of a sudden loss of cabin pressure, oxygen masks will drop down from the panel above you..._

Ahn tried to reach for her mask and put it on; she grabbed it, but her fingers were shaking too much, her mind spinning from the mix of pain and panic and loss of breathe. Her heart was pounding. Her ears were stinging. Ahn continued to gasp for breath, her mind starting to blank in and out. And then she saw and felt someone else hold onto her and grab her mask.

The kindly old man sitting next to her already had his oxygen mask on, and immediately after that came to her aid, fitting the yellow mouth piece over her mouth and pulling the strap around the back of her head. Ahn coughed, gagged, and gasped, but she could breathe again. Her first words out of her mouth were a sobbing "thank you!", and though she wasn't sure if he heard it through the mouthpiece, he seemed to have gotten what she meant, and nodded back.

Chaos continued to unfold all around her, the cabin shaking, other passengers screaming, but at least she could breathe again. She clutched onto her seat armrests with all her adrenaline-fueled strength and refused to let go.

* * *

"New signals! Ten o' clock!" warned Lt. Skiff.

Lt. Skiff's abrupt warning distracted Miranda Volantis' aim - not by much, but even at these long ranges, the minutest deviation in angle could lead the shot well off course. The lascannon's beam appeared instantly between her and the enemy aircraft she was tailing. Instead of striking the center of the fuselage, the lasbeam grazed the rear, inflicting some damage to the tail, though to what extent was hard to determine from this distance. The rebel aircraft seemed to notice immediately, and then took evasive actions, sharply pulling into a dive in the hopes of getting away from her.

The lascannon would take a moment to recharge for the next shot, so Mira checked to see what was the cause of this disturbance. Sure enough, the auspex registered three new signals, approaching at supersonic velocity. So it seemed that the rebels had finally gotten somewhat of an act together. Mira pulled off the attack on the large rebel transport plane in front of her, and circled around to face these new contacts - last thing she wanted was to get attacked from behind.

"Three aircraft, wedge formation," recited Skiff, "range: 50 klicks and closing. Speed: just over 2k kph."

* * *

" _K boyu!_ " said Voronin, "we have contact!"

Sure enough, it looked like whoever they were tracking had noticed them and had abruptly changed course.

"Target lock," said Kozlov, "I repeat, I have target lock."

"Fire," commanded Sokolov, sitting in the lead jet. Time to see what this enemy was made of...

To his right, Sokolov saw a bright flash as Kozlov's MiG released a single Bisnovat R-40 missile at the target. Even at night, the sight of the missile snaking its way forward, leaving an exhaust contrail behind it, was unmistakable.

"20 km to target..." remarked Kozlov, "10 km to target..."

Not all of the MiGs stationed at Chuguyevka were kitted out yet with the latest radar sets, but Sokolov's was, which was why he was the leader while Kozlov and Voronin were his wingmen. On his radar, he could observe their target, as well as Kozlov's missile slowly making its way towards it (and by "slowly", what he meant was _relative_ to the distance it had to cover - it was still traveling at well over Mach 2). For a moment, it looked like the missile had struck their target. However, the radar was very quickly able to show that the target was still active and still moving; it appears to have dodged it at the last moment and had now changed direction. Not bad, he had to admit.

"Okay, all together now!" he commanded, "fire!"

This time, Voronin fired first, followed by Sokolov a few seconds later, and then Kozlov finishing up the salvo. No sooner had the last one been released when Sokolov began to turn away from their target, and Voronin and Kozlov followed; they would pull a turn and then come back and let loose another salvo - depending of course on how it fared this time.

* * *

The Valkyrie was far from the fastest atmospheric flyer in the Imperium's vast arsenal (top speed within atmosphere was barely over a thousand kph), but they were nothing if not incredibly maneuverable - something very much needed in its standard role for rapidly deploying and providing close support to the troops on the ground. Mira was able to dodge the first missile, pulling away at the last minute; the projectile shot past them and continued onwards. Her three attackers were rapidly closing in on her.

"Three missiles inbound!" warned Lt. Skiff. Mira grunted; her auspex indicated three flares issuing forth from the rebel fighters, spaced apart by about a couple seconds between them. She frowned. This would be tricky; even if she dodged one missile, the next would have enough time to correct its course. But this wasn't the first time that Mira had ever encountered a situation like this, and she had a plan. She turned the Valk around to face directly right at the oncoming warheads. If Lt. Skiff had any misgivings about what she was going to attempt next, he kept them to himself; he should have gotten used to Mira and her attitude by now.

Judging from how the first missile had acted, it seemed the rebels were using ones that were extremely fast but also extremely limited in their turning and maneuvering capabilities. She gunned the throttles forward, accelerating right at the oncoming attack, all the while keeping an eye on the auspex.

With just a second or so 'til impact, she shifted the joystick hard to the right; the hoverjets mounted on the Valkyrie's wingtips fired up, and she banked hard to the right, dodging the first missile.

The second was following the first quite closely, but because she had been flying in the opposite direction, right at them, she managed to close the gap between them pretty rapidly, and it largely followed the same path as the first. The third one, however, was much further back behind the first missile, and began to correct its course, veering straight at her.

By then, the lascannon was recharged, and she pointed her nose right at it, and squeezed the trigger, then pulled up; the third missile was obliterated. Pieces of shrapnel and twisted metal debris impacted against the frontal and lower hull armor of the Valk, some with the speed and force of bullets, making an audible _**ting**_ as they struck. So long as none hit the more vulnerable parts, like the cockpit canopy and the engine intakes, this was fine, as the Valk's 75mm plasteel armor plating was easily as strong as that on many of the Guard's ground vehicles.

"Alright boys," smirked Mira, "is that the best you got?"

"You just had to ask didn't you?" remarked Skiff, "they're coming 'round for another salvo."

"Bring it on."


	10. Forever Young

**Chapter X:**

 **FOREVER YOUNG**

 **11km above ground level.**

The cockpit seemed to come alive, shaking wildly and screaming at them. Alarms were beeping, red warning lights blinking. The sudden drop in cabin pressure was accompanied by the plane lurching into a steep descent.

Captain Kim struggled with the controls. Clutched tightly in his hands, the yoke shook incessantly. Beside him, First Officer Jeong had just put on his oxygen mask. He grabbed the yoke, and tapped Kim on the shoulder. Kim nodded, and took his hands off for just a few seconds so he could get his own mask on.

"Engines?" commanded Captain Kim firmly, trying to sound clear and in control, in spite of the chaos around them, and how much his voice was muffled by the mask.

"Engines fine," blurted Min from the flight engineer's station right behind him. He also had his mask on.

"Hydraulics?" asked Jeong.

"Hydraulic pressure..." began Min. He gulped. "Hydraulic pressure dropping!"

Kim's eyes raced to the altimeter. It was falling. 35,000 feet... 34,000... 33,000... 32,000...

"Pull up!" barked Kim, "pull up!"

"It won't pull up!" cried Jeong, yanking back as hard as he could on the yoke.

For a few perilous seconds, the jumbo jet seemed to be in free fall. Kim thought he could feel his heart pounding in his throat. Beside, Jeong yelped as the coffee cup he'd been drinking from earlier spilled all over his pants.

And then, for some reason, when they had plunged over 10,000 feet, the plane suddenly began to level out, and then climb again. Kim pushed the yoke forwards, then yanked it back again. Nothing. He looked at the speedometer. In free fall, they had accelerated to over 600 knots, and with greater speed, the wings were now generating greater lift. But now that the plane was beginning to climb again, airspeed was dropping.

"Reduce thrust!" he commanded.

"What?!" blurted Jeong.

Kim went ahead and slowly pulled back on the throttles. He had to get it just right - too much and they'd go into a stall. But as the engine thrust began to fall, the plane's nose began to point back down - level first, and then downwards again. That's when Kim slowly pushed the throttles back forwards again, hoping that with increased thrust would come increased lift, and that would level their flight path a little.

"Gear down," ordered Kim. Jeong nodded and pulled down the lever to put down the landing gear - hopefully, this would create some drag that would help stabilize them.

"Calling Flight 69," began the radio, "status. What's going on? Your transponder is set to 7700. Over." It seems that while Kim and Jeong were wrestling with the flight controls, Min had sent out the emergency distress signal.

"Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!" began Kim, "we've had sudden loss of cabin pressure, followed by loss of hydraulics. Possible damage to the tail section but cannot discern at this time. Awaiting your instruction. Over."

* * *

Radar showed that the target was still active. _Damn, the bastard's good_ , thought Sokolov. Two of the missiles had missed, but the third was no longer active, which meant either it had been destroyed by whatever countermeasures the target had, or else it had hit home but had no effect - which, in turn, would mean that this was one tough bastard. Sokolov promptly ordered his two wingmen to disarm their proximity fuses; they would be going for direct impacts this time.

Kozlov had already expended both of his radar-guided R-40s and was switching to his heat-seekers, so he would be firing first and from a slightly different angle, so that the thermal sigs from the other two missiles wouldn't interfere. Then he would be down to just one R-40 left; Sokolov commanded that he fire this one after their initial salvo, and then break and return to base.

Once they had completed the loop and were once more in firing position, all three opened fire again. With Kozlov now run dry, he broke to make the return flight to Chuguyevka while Sokolov and Voronin continued pressing the attack.

* * *

"Another salvo inbound," warned Lt. Skiff.

"Deploy chaff," commanded Mira. Based on what she had seen, it seemed that these missiles were radar-guided, but the only way to find out was to try. She also began turning down the lascannon's dial - on a lower power setting, the capacitors would recharge much faster.

"Deploying chaff!" declared Skiff.

Like the Imperial Guard, general policy of the Imperial Navy was that everything, from entire ships down to individual attack craft, be built as quickly and cheaply as possible, that numbers was almost always priority. Sure, an Eldar pilot may spend _centuries_ honing his or her skill, might sit in the command seat of a Nightwing finely crafted out of Wraithbone finely-tuned to the individual pilot (and believe Mira when she tells you she's faced off against these fearsome craft before!). But what good did that do them when the Imperium's mighty manufactora could pump out a _million_ Valks or Thunderbolts in that time? When the Aeronautica Imperialis pilot's training program took only 6 months and 240 hours of actual flying time to complete? The result of this policy, of course, was that there was a huge disparity in quality and survivability between the regular Valks in service, and those special ones reserved for use by the Inquisition or the Mechanicum. But all that said and done, the base Valk was still a decent machine with a few tricks up its sleeve. And right now, Lt. Skiff pulled one of these cards out of the craft's metaphorical sleeve.

There was a _**fooom!**_ as a tube built into the Valk's hull just below the cockpit shot forth a canister. The canister exploded into a shower of tiny, thin strips of plasteel. Mira pulled a hard brake turn and slipped away.

Sure enough, the second and third missiles retained their course and heading, towards the chaff, not correcting for Mira's altered route. The lead missile, however, turned and remained on her tail, closing rapidly. _Emperor damn it_ , thought Mira, _that third one must be heat-seeking_. But by then, the lascannon was showing fully charged and with the lower setting, she could probably get a couple shots. She pulled a hard turn towards the missile and fired. The first time she missed, but the second time, she caught it in the path of the beam and destroyed it.

There was little room for celebration as the auspex blinked a warning. The second missile had detonated among the chaff, but the third missile's guidance system must have detected the ruse as it now began correcting its route towards her. To make matters worse, the auspex now registered a fourth missile on its way. The lascannon was recharging and the chaff dispensers were empty, so she instead switched to her secondary weapons: a pair of multi-missile pods. She had already used up the portside pod when she helped clear the way for Sgt. Hartmann's squad when they dropped.

The multi-missile pods were built primarily as short-range anti-infantry cluster weapons, but that didn't matter right now. Mira pressed the button on her control column that send a half-dozen smaller missiles shooting forward up to meet the one big one heading her way. Sure enough, there was a series of several detonations, as the cluster missiles exploded all around the single large rebel missile, destroying it.

But the fourth missile kept coming, and by now the auspex warned impact was imminent. All she could do was bank hard and brace herself.

The missile detonated. The entire Valk shuddered. Mira was jolted violently, banging her helmet against the glass canopy. Even through the sturdy construction and padding, she still felt it almost as if she had gotten a concussion. Pieces of debris, including strips torn off from her craft, could be seen tumbling off into the air around them. Warning lights were flashing in the cockpit. Mira shook her head to try and get a grip on herself, and tested the control column. They were still flying at least.

"Damage report!" she commanded.

"Engine fire, starboard side!" replied Skiff, fumbling with the fire-control switches, "explosion's torn off several plates from the lower fuselage. Starboard door's blown clean off - thank the Emperor it missed the tail! Fuel tanks five and seven are leaking; we'll have to jettison fuel or risk an electric fire! But other than that, I can reroute power from non-essential systems and keep her flying for a bit. We can run just on portside engine power for now, and maneuvering thrusters are still operable."

"Just keep her together, I'll get us out of here!" roared Mira. She looked at the auspex. This time, they had been saved by taking the hit directly to where the Valk's 75mm armor plating was thickest, armor that had been built to afford the craft protection easily on par with the frontal armor on a Chimera or a Rhino. But the rebel aircraft were still out there, taunting her, and they were fast. There was no hope of trying to outrun them. If they had any hope of getting out of here, she would have to strike back.

* * *

Their opponent, whoever it was, must have been equipped with countermeasures. The good news though was that they at least had finally scored a direct hit.

 _He's one tough bastard, I'll give him that much_ , thought Sokolov. He commanded: "be advised, target is hit but still active."

With Kozlov returning to base, it was just Sokolov and Voronin making up the detail now. At this point, they were flying more or less a loop pattern, making sure to keep their distance from the target. A MiG-25 like his own dear Dasha here was a superb craft, but she was not a dogfighter; she was more like a glorified aerial missile platform. And as the enemy target resumed a direct course towards them, the issue was now about outrunning the turning radius of what was clearly a slower but far more maneuverable craft. And, as Sokolov was about to find out, one with a lot of sting still left to give.

A bright beam of red light appeared out of nowhere, cutting across the night sky. It didn't hit anyone, but the fact that this weapon could shoot at the speed of light and without any warning from the radar was unnerving. Sokolov could see now why their superiors insisted they try to capture this one alive - such an offensive weapons system, reverse-engineered, and mounted onto a Hind gunship or onto the new MiG-29s that were just entering service... the potential was astounding.

"Look out, target has a high-power laser weapon!" warned Sokolov, "fire your missile and fall back!"

"Tak tochno," replied Voronin.

By then, Sokolov and Voronin had come out of the loop and were lining up the next shot. Again, the laser beam appeared, and much closer this time - too close. For a split-second, the entire sky above him seemed to light up. Even from the safety of inside his cockpit and his flight-suit, Sokolov could have sworn he could have been blinded or at least severely dazzled by the intensity of the light, were it not for the visor on his flight helmet. A meter or more down and he would have been a goner.

Unfortunately, while the beam had thankfully missed the main fuselage and fuel tanks, it had instead just grazed the top of his starboard tail fin, shearing it clean off. Warning lights were blinking in the cockpit. With such severe damage taken to her stabilizers, Dasha began to bank sharply. Sokolov tried to correct, when he noticed that he had target lock and a clear line to the target, at very close range now. Without a second thought, he squeezed the trigger on his control stick. One of his last two remaining missiles fired up and shot forward.

However, the combination of the recoil from this missile launch combined with the loss of stability from the damaged tail fin to cause Dasha to begin spiraling out of control. The craft plunged into a dive.

Sokolov felt like his stomach had ended up in his mouth as Dasha tumbled from the sky. No, literally, he could taste bile in his throat. But he knew that there was would be no getting his girl back under control. And so he immediately let go of the steering column and instead grabbed the two red handles located between his knees, and pulled.

There was a number of small blasts around him as the explosive bolts holding down the canopy were fired all at once, the whole canopy popped off, and Sokolov felt a sharp jolt forcing him and maybe half his internal organs back down into the ass of his seat. His body was subjected to extreme G-forces as the rockets on his KM-1 ejector seat flared up, propelling them all clear of the cockpit.

* * *

The cabin continued to shake violently. Other passengers were still screaming. The stewardess had disappeared and was nowhere to be seen. To her right, the younger man sitting across the aisle from her had fallen silent and still, his eyes closed, either from shock or from loss of oxygen.

Ahn Soonae just sat in her own seat, breathing hard, sobbing, tears running down her cheeks as she thought about Mom and Dad. Dad, who would be waiting at the airport to pick her up; him and the little apartment they had in the city. Mom, who the day before had taken her out, eating delicious French pastries at an outdoor cafe along the Seine.

Ahn closed her eyes and tried to pray. To Christ and to God. To Buddha. To the old spirits. To _anyone_ out there who was listening to her. She prayed and begged for all this to stop. That's all she wanted right now, for all this to stop, all this pain and fear and suffering. She opened her eyes.

The kindly old man sitting to her left was also quiet and sitting still, his eyes closed, even as the cabin rumbled and jolted all around him. But unlike the other passengers who had passed out from struggling, the old man instead looked peaceful and calm - or at least as still as he could be, given the circumstances. The old man then opened his eyes, and turned to face her. He could see it in her eyes the terror, the agony, the stream of tears on her face. He didn't say anything, but merely held out his arms to her, wide open. All Ahn could think of right then was to return the gesture: she leaned towards him and embraced him tightly.

"There, there child," he whispered into her ear, his voice unwavering, "worry not. This will all be over soon."


	11. Kaltes Klares Wasser

**Chapter XI:**

 **KALTES KLARES WASSER**

 **50m beneath the Sea Of Japan.**

Below the waves, a massive, dark object was slowly gliding forward through the depths, and if Human ears were sensitive enough, they would pick up the accompanying SONAR _ping... ping... ping..._ coming from it.

Deep within, clad in his rich black-and-gold naval longcoat, Captain Roman Alexandrovich Valius sat quietly in the commander's seat, right in the center of the main command bridge of the Victor-III _Shchuka_ -class SSGN, _K-1822_ (or just "K22" as she was affectionately known by the men who called her home). Not a word was said by either Valius nor any of the crew standing or sitting at their stations around him. For the last half-an-hour, the K-22 had plowed on with its assigned course, their orders to head out to sea and wait. He could tell that something was up from the urgency and abruptness of the order, but what exactly was going on, no-one knew for sure. He and his crew began to suspect that the worst had come to pass, that war had indeed broken out, that by now, American ICBMs would be raining down on cities across the Union... or it could just turn out that all of this was a drill.

The K-22 had originally belonged to the Northern Fleet; Captain Valius himself was a native of the Lithuanian SSR. He and his crew were transferred out here to the Pacific Fleet last year as part of a revised naval strategy focusing on fortifying key areas like the Sea Of Okhotsk. However, due to various issues - logistics, politics, bureaucracy, the like - they hadn't actually made the long voyage from Murmansk to Vladivostok until that summer. Valius and his crew were made up mainly of ethnic Lithuanians, Latvians, and Estonians, and they'd had the occasional clash with the Far Easterners, but other than that, Vladivostok was an alright assignment. Indeed, it was things like this that had brought them closer together as a crew in some ways.

"Comrade-Captain," spoke one of the sailors, saluting him, cutting the tension at long last, "Comrade Myshkin wishes to speak to you."

Valius thanked the sailor and strode off, out of the bridge and up the narrow metal corridor towards the bow. Even within the largest submarines, space was always at a premium, which made the fact that the political officer got an entire cabin (even if it was still a tiny one) all to himself all the more glaring. The one assigned to K-22 was a short and ruddy individual by the name of Yakov Pavlovich Myshkin. He was sitting at his desk, reviewing papers as Valius entered.

"You wanted to see me?" began Valius.

"Comrade Captain," nodded Myshkin, "orders just in from the mainland. Highest priority. I... suppose you wish to know what's going on."

"Yes, very much so," replied Valius, "we are at war?"

"Indeed we are," sighed Myshkin, "though not with the West."

Valius was confused. On one hand, it was a great relief to know that perhaps everything he knew and loved back home hadn't yet been wiped out in a rain of thermonuclear fire; the Americans and their allies were the only ones he could think of with that kind of capability. But every answer raised only additional questions: if it was not with NATO, then with whom else could it possibly be?

"I'm afraid all information is on a need-to-know basis," said Myshkin, reading the look on Valius' face, "but... if you must know, for the moment, the attacks on the Motherland seem to be limited to a number of major cities. For now. There is no telling if more of _them_ are coming. That is all I will say for now."

"And who is _them_ exactly?" asked Valius.

"As I said, it's all need-to-know," replied Myshkin, "even I am not privy to that information yet. Regardless, our new mission perimeters are as follows: about ten minutes ago, three MiGs of the VVS 530th out of Chuguyevka intercepted an enemy flyer. One was shot down and its pilot, one Lt. Rodion Sokolov, has bailed out and is now adrift. More importantly, ground radar had confirmed the enemy craft went down shortly thereafter. Your mission now is to head to _these_ coordinates and search for the downed enemy aircraft, retrieve any wreckage we may find... and if its pilot is still alive, bring him into custody."

"And what of Comrade Sokolov?" asked Valius, "should we pick him up?"

"He can wait," replied Myshkin, "we have other vessels in the area. But we are the nearest and the fastest, and therefore priority is the location and recovery of this unknown enemy craft. Understood?"

Valius did not like being ordered around on _his_ vessel, but Myshkin represented the Party itself. He curtly nodded and left, heading back to the command bridge.

* * *

 **City Of Makabeus Hive (?),**  
 **Beta-Quadrant, Northern Hemisphere,**  
 **Terra Nova, Terra Nova System.**  
 **Imperial Date: 3779084.M42**

There had not been much time to stop and think as soon as they had hit the ground. Once the drop pod impacted and opened up, Veteran Sergeant Gravius and the rest of his squad had charged out, bolters-blazing, swords-swinging, cries of glory and eternal praise to the Emperor blasting through their helmet audio filters. It wasn't until later, once they had met up with Brother Captain Syphro, that they finally stopped and took some time to get a bearing on their surroundings.

By then, the natives had taken the hint and had either run or were in hiding; the busy downtown area they now stood in was empty. Shops and storefronts appeared devoid of life, their windows smashed in from the fighting. Several cars and trucks stood abandoned in the street where their owners had left them. Pathetic machines, these things, Gravius noted; vehicles in the Imperium were built strong and made to last, but these ones were small, dull, and built from thin steel and feeble plastic. A single bolt would destroy one of them, provided it didn't simply penetrate one side, pass right through, and come out the other end. All of the cars seemed to look exactly like one another with only minor differences between them; Gravius' highly sensitive and attuned eyes were able to make out strange glyphs along the front of it, though it looked like it spelt out the word "TRABANT", whatever that meant. Perhaps that was the name of whatever local manufactorum had put out such disgraceful excuses for vehicles.

Makabeus Hive was a massive sprawling urban center and industrial complex and expected to be well defended, and yet the city they now found themselves in right now amounted to little more than a large town. With its mix of angular, strong but base concrete blocks and Gothic spires and edifaces, it certainly looked like any other Imperial City, but nothing like what they had been expecting. The only meaningful resistance (if one could call it that at all) had come from various and severely under-equipped groups of what looked to be local law enforcement as well as a local civilian militia. Their weapons were laughably inadequate and their resistance hopeless and disorganized, but as easy as these groups had been put down, that only raised another question: where were the rebels' real military forces? Surely they were well aware that the Imperium was coming to crush them? Did they not have even simple lasguns at their disposal? And if this wasn't the area they were targeting, then what place was this?

Perhaps one of the natives would happily oblige them. Gravius, flanked by Brothers Lucio and Selig, strode over to where two of the local "resistance" lay on the ground, their bodies cleaved in half. Earlier on, Brother Noel had carved through them with his chainsword - a weapon meant to cut through even Power Armor had chewed clean through their cloth uniforms, letting their intestines spill out onto the ground. The cut had been so clean in fact that you could almost put the two halves of both bodies together and they would look almost whole.

Gravius took a moment to study them. The first was a young man, no more than probably his mid-twenties (assuming these natives aged like the rest of the Imperium did), his blue eyes staring blankly and lifelessly and fixed in whatever horror he felt in his last moments. Blond curls of hair were visible under a drab-green peaked cap that looked vaguely like a commissar's, and the rest of his coat, jacket, and boots also somewhat resembled a commissar, save for the drab-green color and far simpler and more spartan appearance. His right hand still gripped the puny stubgun he had dare attempt to use against one of the Emperor's Angels.

Having first made sure that no more hostiles were active in the immediate area (though that might not have been necessary, given how puny and pathetic the stubguns these natives seemed to wield were), Gravius removed his helmet. He looked around him. It felt strange beholding this world for the first time without the use of his helmet auspex, but there was also an important job to be done. He lifted his right foot, and stomped on the dead native's head, crushing it completely. Bone crunched, blood and flesh squelched. When he lifted his foot again, there was fresh brain matter spread out upon the ground. Gravius knelt down, almost touching his face to the pavement, and proceeded to consume these pieces, lapping up brain and blood. These scraps provided perhaps a thin sliver of nourishment, but the real prize was whatever knowledge and memories he could glean from them.

Images and memories began to form themselves in Gravius' mind's eye. Images of the city when it was crowded and busy, what must have been a normal day, through the eyes of this native, this... _Unteroffizier Rüdiger Helmann, age 27, Dresden District Command of the Deutsche Volkspolizei_... wait a minute, _Dresden_...

Gravius looked up and around him. As he digested the native's mind, he was beginning to gain some understanding of the language. Street signs and storefronts around him began to make sense. _KARL-MARX SHOP_... a store named after a local historical figure named Karl Marx, whoever that was (Gravius abruptly found himself thinking of black-and-white photographs and big bushy beards - elements of Rüdiger's memories, no doubt). _Haushaltsgeräte_... household appliances. _Geschenkartikel_... gift items. _Modeschmuck_... fashion jewelry. _Kaffeeshop_... coffee shop. _Bierstube_... beer shop. _Brühlsche Terrasse_... Brühl's Terrace. _Innere Altstadt_... inner old city. _Großer Garten_... great garden. _Dresden_... a name... _the name_ of this place.

"Dresden..." he muttered.

"I beg your pardon, Brother?" inquired Selig.

"The name of this town... is _Dresden_ ," declared Gravius.

Brother Lucio swore. It was clear now that something had indeed gone very wrong. Gravius remembered the Warp anomaly they had encountered before; if someone or something had deliberately tried to foil their landing, put them well off-course...

"So where is Makabeus Hive?" asked Brother Selig.

"No, nothing," replied Gravius, thinking very hard on the bits and pieces of Rüdiger's memories that were beginning to reveal themselves to him. "Cannot... find Makabeus Hive anywhere."

"Battle-Brother, what is going on?" boomed a commanding voice. Approaching them was Brother Captain Amadeus Syphro, Master Of Steeds, Captain of the Fists' Fifth Company. Syphro had assumed the captainship not too long ago, although his predecessor Honored Brother Captain Torres had still fought alongside the Fifth for quite some time, entombed within a Dreadnought, before the Daemons of the Madragoran had finally put an end to his legend for good. His memory was certainly well honored; Torres had ably guided the Fifth Company for nearly eight decades, ever since their prior Captain Tracinto had been felled by the fell traitor-cum-Khornate-champion Baranox The Blood-Haunted during The Despoiler's 13th and Final Crusade against Cadia.

All in all, it was a noble title and position that Syphro now occupied and had the challenge of living up to, and he had performed well in that role over these last few years, at least until now. But now, if this information was proven to be correct, then, for the first time in quite a while, the Fifth Company may have badly botched an important combat operation.

* * *

 **Staatsrat Building, Berlin-Mitte,  
East Berlin, German Democratic Republic (GDR).**

Officially, the leader of the GDR was an office not vested in a single person but rather collectively held by the State Council. Unofficially, the real power lay with the secretary of the Socialist Unity Party, and right now, he was not a very happy man at all.

"Herr-General," fumed Erich Honecker, speaking into the telephone, "what, pray tell, are we waiting for exactly? The 1st Guards are stationed in Dresden, if I recall correctly."

"You recall correctly, yes," replied General Mikhail Mitrofanovich Zaitsev, supreme commander of the GSFG (he wasn't in Berlin at the moment, but at Vogelsang), "which is why I've ordered that they pull back to Radeburg and join up with the 7th Panzers."

" _Cowards_ ," hissed Margot, Erich's wife who was seated right across the table from him. Whether her hearing was just that good or she was just being nosy as usual, she could hear well enough everything that was being said over the phone. She continued grumbling: "Comrade Stalin would _never_ have let this happen!"

Erich motioned for her to please keep quiet, and then continued. "General, with all due respect, we've basically just conceded Dresden to these invaders!"

"And lived to fight another day," replied Zaitsev, "I'm sorry to say this, but if your own _Volkspolizei_ and KdA forces were unable to contain the threat locally, then perhaps we should take some time to fall back and reevaluate our position. I'd rather know what enemy I face, and on more open and favorable ground too, then just send my men rolling blindly through the streets."

"Your comrades back home are fighting tooth and nail for Moscow and Leningrad as we speak," pointed out Erich.

"I'm not my comrades," said Zaitsev, bluntly. "And I have it on good advice from one of the KGB's top men on the ground there that these enemies are very powerful and advanced, and charging into the city now would be a pointless expenditure of further lives and materiel."

"Who?" demanded Erich, "do I know this agent?"

"My apologies, but that's all on a strictly need-to-know basis," said the General.

Erich wanted to say more, but knew that between the two of them, Comrade Zaitsev clearly had the better idea of what he was doing. This was a man who'd had over four decades of military experience, had fought the fascists at Kursk, Prague, and Berlin, and whose posting here, right at the (metaphorical) frontline for the last four years was no accident. Erich, by contrast, had spent the entire war in a Nazi prison - no mean feat surviving that, mind you, but admittedly probably an accomplishment more of personal grit than tactical acumen.

That, and Erich had already done one or two things that had really ruffled the Kremlin's feathers that year (planning to visit his counterparts over in Bonn was probably not a good idea, not while the Pershing-2s were still there), so continuing to antagonize one of their greatest military leaders was probably not a good idea. So he decided not to push the matter any further and instead hope that whatever Comrade-General here had in mind would pay off.

* * *

 **Border-Checkpoint, the Demilitarized Zone,  
Near to Kaesong, Democratic People's Republic Of Korea (DPRK).**

 _Why aren't you dying?!_ , thought Corporal Baek In-Sung, Korean People's Army, to himself as he manned the PK Type 82 machine gun, shooting madly at the _thing_ that was now charging at them. He was supposed to shoot only in short controlled bursts, but right now, he was scared out of his mind. The ammo belt strained and tugged, half pulling the attached ammo-box towards him, and the barrel was beginning to steam and hiss from overheating.

Five more men in the squad were with him, firing away with their Type-58 rifles. The entire squad's output of firepower did _nothing_ \- the _thing_ , whatever it was, kept going, running with a speed like a leopard, across no-man's land. Whenever its massive, heavy, metallic feet pounded down upon the ground, in some places, a landmine buried right there would explode but to absolutely no effect on the attacker. And it was not alone.

 ** _Boom-boom-boom_** rang the attacker's own weapon with a dull thud that sounded more appropriate to an autocannon than an assault rifle. Whatever it was, its aiming was spot on, as three of the men's bodies seemed to explode into gore and uniform tatters right before Baek's horrified eyes.

* * *

 **Command Bunker, near Sariwon,  
North Hwanghae Province, DPRK.**

Colonel Chin, IV Army Corps, scratched his chin in confusion as the radio operator relayed to him the latest news. "So the _Namhan_ are attacking? But only in the westernmost sector, nearest to Kaesong? And... they're deploying 3-meter-tall supermen covered in bulletproof armor and armed with automatic grenade launchers? And _swords_?"

"It's not the _Namhan_ , sir," spoke Lt. Choe, "our spies in the South have confirmed no military build-up. Indeed, it seems that they too are experiencing some kind of attack, also the westernmost sector. ROKAF has begun mobilizing throughout the Seoul region, but from what we've gathered, these seem more responsive than offensive."

"Then who in the Fatherly Leader's name is it?" commanded Chin.

"We... don't know," muttered Lt. Choe, "one of the patrols claimed they were being attacked as if spirits, or demons more like, had descended from the heavens above."

Col. Chin and the other man in the room, Lt. Bahk, would have balked at this bourgeois idea of angels coming down from the heavens to attack them were it not for the seriousness and honesty in Lt. Choe's face. Maybe it was _aliens_ , like in those few Russian and Chinese science fiction movies, or those _other_ science fiction movies that the Fatherly Leader's noble son had made (which were mandatory watching for all in the nation's governing elite) - but either way, something must have gone very wrong if even that was considered remotely plausible. Chin frowned and took a closer look at the large map spread out on the table.

"Kijong-dong is near to there," he observed, "it's largely uninhabited."

"Uh, sir, sorry, you are mistaken," corrected Bahk, "Kijong-dong is, in fact, densely populated; why, it's our peaceful and prosperous settlement! Blessed by the Fatherly Leader himself!"

Chin raised an eyebrow. Oh, right, of course, Bahk was of one of the lower grades and thus not entirely privy to the level of information that higher-ups like Chin himself were. But he also had no time to explain the reality to Bahk so he instead chose a shortcut answer: "better to sacrifice a village, even one of our best, than an entire city," said Chin, matter-of-factly, "contact the 815th and 820th. And send a general notice to all precincts throughout the Hwanghae and Kangwondo to begin mobilizing their Red Guard militias. Finally, begin alerting all border patrols in the region to begin withdrawing, to Kijong-dong."

"Are you suggesting...?" began Bahk, aghast.

Chin nodded. "We're going to lure them into the village, tie them up there, and then throw _everything_ we've got at them - artillery, bombs, Scud missiles, the kitchen sink too if necessary."

* * *

 **Somewhere in the Sea Of Japan.**

Lt. Sokolov supposed he had a lot to be grateful for. That the KM-1 ejector seat was able to get him up and safely away from Dasha despite the fact that she was spinning and hurtling through the air faster than sound. That his chute worked and opened up on time to pull him out of the spin. That throughout it all, he was somehow able to keep his stomach contents in (else it would now be spread all over the inside of his helmet). That the inflatable life-vest worked and was now keeping him afloat in spite of the heavy gear he was wearing. That the high-altitude flight suit was water-proof and thermally insulated enough to keep him warm. And that the blinking signal transponder attached to his suit would, hopefully, mean that a rescue boat would be along to pick him up before too long.

He lay back where he was, bobbing up and down in the ocean, looking up at the starry sky above him. Now that was safe for now, he also had a moment to wonder as to whatever had happened to the others? To Kozlov and Voronin, and of course, to their skilled adversary? He was pretty sure that his last missile had struck and surely must have dealt some hefty damage.

A flash of light in the corner of his eye caught his attention. He turned and looked in the direction it came from. Off in the distance, there was a light. It seemed to be flashing, but that was probably because of waves passing in front of it. If it was a boat, it would either get closer, or would gradually disappear as it sailed past him. And he was also fairly certain it could not be a lighthouse either, given how far away from land they had been when the duel took place. But it seemed to remain still, even after he had observed it for a few minutes.

Sokolov could have just remained as he was, continue floating there where he lay and wait for his rescue. But instead, whether it was curiosity or the hope that he might get rescued sooner, he decided to go and check it out. It was a little awkward trying to swim as he was, in his bulky flight suit and with the life-vest designed as it was to keep his chest and head facing up, so he decided to backstroke his way there, craning his head around every couple minutes to see what progress he was making. Little by little, stroke by stroke, the light in the distance was getting closer.

* * *

 **Excerpt from Christian Broadcasting Channel,  
Dated Oct. 11, 1984, 10:00am PST.**

 _"My fellow brothers and sisters... I always believed this day would come. And I been warnin' y'all this for years. But today, GOD has FINALLY SPOKEN! Set your TVs or your radios to any other channel, and you'll see for yourself the DIVINE JUDGMENT and RETRIBUTION being meted out upon cities all around the WORLD!_

 _"Yes, GOD hath shown his DISPLEASURE with Humanity, and henceforth sent his ANGELS from heaven above to punish Humanity for our SIN! For our DEBAUCHERY! For our GODLESS SOCIALISM and GOVERNMENT! To tear down this NEW SODOM AND GOMORRAH we have created! To smite those who dare think themselves so arrogantly above His GLORY! Even now, his ANGELS marcheth, unstoppable by even man's greatest weapons! For though you may fire your slings and arrows from atop the Tower Of Babel, you can never hit GOD!_

 _"Yes, folks, it's clear now that the RAPTURE is surely upon us! REPENT, I say! Confess your SIN! Open your hearts to JESUS while you still can! For JESUS CHRIST is our Lord and Savior, and only through him can you achieve the promise of the Heavenly Kingdom!_

 _"And what better way is there to truly show your love and repentance before our Lord JESUS CHRIST... than to OPEN YOUR WALLETS and DONATE NOW! Yes, ladies and gentlemen, now is as good a time as any to repent, accept Jesus into your heart, and secure your place in Heaven by Our Lord's side, all of which you can do for only a small one-time payment of THREE-HUNDRED DOLLARS! Call THIS number RIGHT NOW to begin setting up your payment plan. Alternatively, we accept checks in the mail or wire-transfers through Western Union at this address. QUICKLY! There may not be much time left here on Earth! Yes folks, THREE-HUNDRED DOLLARS now, or an eternity in HELL! The choice is yours!"_


	12. Hell Is For Children

**Chapter XII:**

 **HELL IS FOR CHILDREN**

 **Seoul-Gimpo International Airport (SEL),  
Seoul, Republic Of Korea (ROK).**

The main terminal had become a madhouse. Masses of people crowded and mobbed the information desk, desperate for any knowledge on the whereabouts of friends and loved ones. Many were crying, many others were shouting. The airport and airline staff looked hopelessly overwhelmed, unable to say or do anything to quell the tide of human anger and sorrow descending on them. They had to call in security to remove one elderly woman, screaming and wailing madly at the information desk and refusing to leave.

Before long, anguish and pain turned to anger and hatred. Somewhere, a group of people stood up and started chanting anti-Communist slogans, openly calling for death and revenge upon the North, the Chinese, the Russians, on pretty much anybody and _everybody_ they thought was behind this disaster.

It was only a couple hours later that the airline staff finally made the announcement over the P.A.: seven different jets had disappeared from radar. Most likely lost for good. Including the inbound flight from Paris. The one Soonae was on.

In stark contrast to the chaos all around him, Ahn Ji-Seok hadn't moved or said a word for over an hour, maybe two. Were it not for his breathing and blinking, or the tears slowly streaming down his cheeks, one could be forgiven for thinking he was dead. He certainly felt the part. All he could do was just sit there, on his lonely little bench in the arrival hall, staring at the little Polaroid photo he held in his hands. This was the last picture he had taken with Soonae, his beautiful Soonae, his one and only Soonae, before she left to go visit her mother. He had taken her to the riverside park that day. She looked so happy, eating an ice cream while proudly showing off the Sony Walkman he had bought for her. So full of life.

The murmurs and shouts had started up again. Out of the corner of his reddened eyes, Ji-Seok noticed some of the crowd parting ways as several people entered the terminal. The first of them was an officer in ROKA camo fatigues and a beret, and carrying a megaphone. He was followed by four or five soldiers, also in fatigues, wearing M1 helmets and armed with M16A1 rifles (like all citizens of the Republic, Ji-Seok had done his service with the army, knew a thing or two about the M16A1, could even tell the differences between the original American ones and the local ones made by Daewoo). When they reached the center of the arrival hall, where everyone could see them, the officer stood up on top of one of the waiting benches there, clicked on the megaphone, and addressed the crowd.

"Attention, citizens!" declared the officer, "we are at war."

There were murmurs coming from the crowd as the words sank in. By now, most people probably knew there was some kind of violence that had broken out, but to finally hear it right from the authorities still must have been sobering.

He continued: "You may have heard the news, rumors even. We can confirm that roughly two hours ago, unknown attackers appeared in the DMZ and assaulted our forces along the border. They are not of the North; however, they are still extremely dangerous and kill indiscriminately. You may have heard by now of other attacks going on around the world; these attackers are of the same kind. By executive order of President Chun Doo-hwan, all citizens are now instructed to return to their homes _immediately_ and remain there; a curfew will remain in effect until this crisis is over. All able-bodied men are commanded to report to their home district Reserve Force officer _immediately_ for further instructions."

Even after the officer was very clear in his instructions, it still took quite a while yet for people to filter out of the terminal. Some tried to mob the officer, desperate for further information. Ji-Seok stayed where he sat a little longer, but now, something about the officer's words, blunt and to-the-point as they were, had given him a new thought. Yes, he knew what he was going to do next. He was going to find whoever took his Soonae from him, and make that bastard pay.

* * *

 **Somewhere...**

Lt. Mira Volantis bobbed up and down in the dark ocean, nursing her head wound, being careful not to spill a drop of blood into the water until it congealed. There was no telling what kind of carnivorous life-forms stalked the seas of this planet; she'd heard stories of some worlds where deep in the oceans lurked enormous monsters, so large and deadly that some believed them to be Tyranid bio-forms that had come to the galaxy well, well ahead of the main hive fleet. Unfortunately, the briefings they had gotten on Terra Nova prior to their arrival in the system had skimped out on what was the native fauna like - for the brass, that was probably a secondary consideration.

Those enemy fighters were fast but not very agile, and even less well armored at all; against the lascannon, their craft melted away like wet pages out of the _Imperial Navy Airman's Uplifting Primer_. But _by the Empra_ did they sure have some bite, and those missiles sure hurt, even when striking the Valk's armor plating. And especially that last missile, fired by that lucky bastard she'd gotten. The damage was dealt, with two engines out and critical structural damage, she had to bail. Lt. Skiff... well, he was with the Emperor now, bless him. The explosion had worked its way into the rear cockpit. She did not have enough time to check up on Skiff before she needed to eject - not that there was anything she could have done anyway, given that the rear cockpit was inaccessible from the forward one.

And now she was here. Truth be told, she wasn't expecting a rescue anytime soon - her life was probably already written off, by now valued less than whatever fuel and manhours would be expended in sending a search-and-rescue crew out to her last known location, follow the signal from the beacon strapped to her life-jacket (by the way, any way she could disable that damn annoying light? If she already had a signal transponder, was the light necessary too? Unless of course it was there because that's what was in the instructions for the STC is came from, and you know those Cogboy types, never messing around with anything...). Against the backdrop of this wider planetary-scale war - hell, this whole galaxy-level conflict - what was one life to the brass anyway?

Still, though, at least for now she was alive. And from the looks of the horizon, the sun would be up soon.

* * *

 **Khavaran District, Tehran,**  
 **Tehran Province, Islamic Republic Of Iran.**

If they ever found out what he did, he would probably be shot or hanged for treason. For desertion; for cowardice in the face of the enemy. _If_ , that is - for in Khalid's mind at that moment, the prospect of a possible death in future seemed vastly preferable to an almost certain death right now.

Sgt. Ebrahimi was dead, along with Arman and Sohrab and all the others too. Just half an hour ago, they were a platoon - nay, they were more than that, they were a true band of brothers. And now they were little more than himself and possibly a couple others too. Samir was always the runt in the unit, getting picked on by the others; Khalid was certain that if anyone else fled, it would be him.

He couldn't believe it. Maybe this truly was Armageddon, the final battle marking the end of all time. Maybe these metal monsters were indeed angels sent from God himself, come to wreak His wrath upon the Earth, punishing humanity for their sin. Or... or perhaps, these weren't angels, but demons... an army of _Djinn_ sent from Satan. But then, if these truly were the end of days, then perhaps there was hope. Maybe the _Mahdi_ would finally reveal himself? An interesting thought to dwell on, but not right now. All he cared about right now was living through the next five minutes.

The narrow streets and winding alleyways of the Khavaran had transformed from a vibrant city to a warzone. Fires were burning. Storefronts and windows were shattered. Severed electrical power lines were fizzing and hissing. While the fighting had been raging, people had either fled the area altogether or else taken refuge in their homes, locking their doors and windows (for whatever good that did them against invaders who could _smash through walls_ ), while looters had come by and started breaking and stealing whatever they could find. In the confusion, families had split up.

"MMAAAAMAAA!" wailed a little boy. He must have been seven or eight, and scared out of his mind. Poor kid was cowering in a doorway, across the street from where Khalid was.

Khalid stopped to take a look at him, paused for thought, when suddenly...

 ** _WWWWHHHOOOOOOSSSSHHHH!_**

Something went whistling past Khalid, so sudden and fast, leaving behind it a contrail of smoke and flame. Khalid had to hold up his right arm in front of his face as a shield from the heat, dropping his AK-47 in the process. There was an explosion somewhere to his left.

With fervor and furor, a group of two dozen men, no, _boys_ appeared out of the smoke to his right, running, charging, shouting. Some of them were as young as maybe ten, eleven. About one-in-five of them were toting RPG-7s, including the one who had just shot (and nearly hit Khalid); he had stopped to reload, with help from one of his companions (who had no weapons, but was carrying two more rockets, slung over his shoulders). Another half of them were waving AK-47s; some of them were even firing shots straight up in the air, caught up in the excitement of the moment, with absolutely little to no regard for safety of anyone around them.

"FORWARDS!" shouted the one grown man among them, bringing up the rear; he was a thickly bearded sergeant in camo fatigues and a red paisley bandana tied around his head, an American M1911 pistol in one hand and a _sword_ in the other. "GOD IS GREAT! For the Revolution! For the Ayatollah! For the GLORY OF GOD!"

Khalid ran across the street, avoiding the maddened boys rushing past him. He ran to where the little boy was hiding, knelt down to scoop him up in his arms.

The bearded sergeant saw him and shouted. "YOU! SOLDIER! Just where do you think you're going?" When Khalid didn't stop, the sergeant continued berating him: "stop! STOP! Get back here! TRAITOR! You will _hang_ for your cowardice!" The sergeant pointed his pistol at Khalid.

He was cut off by the sudden sound of a great _**crash**_ two houses down from them, followed by screaming. Something enormous had smashed right through a solid wall, bricks and masonry tumbling everywhere, a cloud of dust erupting forth. At least one of the charging boys was struck in the head by a falling chunk of rubble and collapsed to the ground, motionless.

Something huge had come barreling through the building like it was nothing, much larger than any of the other humanoid figures Khalid had seen earlier. It was at least four meters tall and covered in similar black and white metal armor to the other invaders, but it also had a longer, snout-shaped metal face, with a gnarly rotary cannon for a right arm, and a massive metal fist on its left arm, albeit with a _chainsaw_ bolted onto where its wrists would be. Like an enraged elephant, it smashed into the horde of militia, rending apart the mass of young boys like they were nothing but stalks of wheat.

"AYAYAYAYAYAYAY!" roared the last young man in the bunch; he had a launcher slung over his shoulder.

Time seemed to slow down. Khalid saw the would-be hero stumble backwards from the recoil; the lone rocket-propelled grenade flared forth from the launcher; it sailed through the air, and smashed right into the thing's face. It exploded.

It didn't seem to have any effect other than knocking the thing's head a little to the right. It slowly turned its face back facing forwards; it was expressionless, but with terrible glowing red eyes, it certainly didn't look amused at all.

Khalid didn't stick around to see what happened to the remaining soldiers in the street because by then, he and the little boy he was carrying had turned into a doorway, and bolted down the stairs he saw as soon as he entered, down into the building's basement. But he could hear the whirring and blasts as the thing's gun fired up, as well as feel the ground shake from its footsteps.

* * *

 **300m above ground.**

The nimble F-14 Tomcat circled high above the Khavaran and the nearby neighborhoods of Dulab and Esfahanak. It was evening, and the sprawling cityscape of Tehran below him was pretty dark for a city of over 6 million people, largely due to a mix of wartime shortages and the modest attempts to blackout against Iraqi bombing raids. The one exception to this was the growing path of fire, explosions, and destruction that was slowly consuming entire city blocks, streets, and neighborhoods. From up here, it looked like a living fireball from Hell had exploded in the Grand Bazaar, and was now slowly snaking its way through the southern precincts of the war-ravaged city.

Lt. Mazdaki frowned as he looked down, then settled back down into his pilot's seat.

Unlike many of his fellow countrymen, Lt. Mazdaki did not wish "Death to America". If they truly were "the Great Satan", then how could they make such a _beautiful_ plane as this? There were about eighty of them in the IRIAF, all wondrous toys and goodies left over from the Shah's air force. America was the enemy, yes, that much was true, and maybe one day he would have to fly this beautiful girl against other F-14s. But for now, all Mazdaki cared about was having the opportunity to fly and proudly serve his nation, whether it was against that mad Arab fascist Saddam, or against these... _Djinn_ now sowing chaos and death upon the city.

"This is Shahbaz-1; targets spotted," said Mazdaki into his radio, "Grid WV 4167-4774, heading North-Northeast. Over."

"Grid 4167-4774," replied the radio. "Acknowledged, Shahbaz-1. Beginning my attack run. God be with you."

Lt. Mazdaki nodded, and then pulled away. A moment later, nearly a dozen low flying F-4 Phantoms swept over the area, raining bombs and missiles, initiating hammer down across the entire district.

* * *

 **Pushkinskaya Station, Moscow,**  
 **Moscow Oblast, Russian SFSR, USSR.**

The station was so crowded. Svetlana could only see the backs and shoulders of the person in front of her, and behind her, and on both sides of her. It was tight, hot, and stank of people packed together like sardines in a can - so tightly there wasn't even place to sit. Not too far from them, a mother was nursing her baby, who was screaming at the top of his little lungs. Elsewhere, an old woman muttered Russian Orthodox prayers.

There was a rumbling; the trains were stopped, so it must have been an explosion on the ground above them. Light fixtures shook and flickered; dust and pieces of plaster fell from the ceiling.

Beside her, Svetlana's father Anatoly tried to comfort her, holding her hand, telling her it would only be a short thing. If there were indeed enemy troops invading them, then that at least was a sure sign that there would be no nuclear bombing - what sense would it make for the Americans to bomb their own men? Why would they even land boots on the ground if that was their intention? Svetlana was not quite sure, but she smiled weakly back anyway.

* * *

The city was nothing quite like what Sgt. Markus Frost, New Cadian Shock Troops 501st Regiment, was expecting.

For starters, the layout was completely off from what their briefings before the drop had told them. The architecture was not too different from your typical Imperial city, but the signs were all in some bizarre language, and they were completely unable to speak to any of the natives they had captured so far (though one of them called them "Amerikanets" and tried to speak to him in "Anglisky", whatever those meant).

And then the news came that this wasn't even New Lodan - apparently. They along with the Catachans and the Fists were to take the major city and spaceport of New Lodan, except that now the news coming in was that only one squad of the Adeptus Astartes had landed here, and that the rest of them had landed in a completely different city several hundred klicks away. Oh, and they still couldn't get the fleet back online even after half-an-hour of Specialist Banks tinkering away with the long-range Vox-Caster. Yeah, this invasion was off to a _swell_ start. Commissar Ridzik certainly seemed to agree, didn't he?

But even if they were in the completely wrong city, Sgt. Frost had to admit that was just the start of the surprises. For a world supposedly amassing a mighty army preparing to spread their rebellion to neighboring worlds, they hadn't yet encountered any meaningful resistance so far except for local law enforcement officers in unarmored black uniforms, armed only with stub-pistols. They weren't even wearing flak armor; the lasguns burnt and boiled right through them like nothing.

"What'cha got there?" remarked Sgt. Frost, pausing a moment to light up a Lho-stick. Several of his men were investigating a heavy steel gate set inside a large stone arch, a letter "M" inscribed right in the keystone of the arch.

"It appears these gates are some kind of defense mechanism," said Private Vanko.

"It looks like an ordinary transit station to me," shrugged Frost, taking a drag on his Lho-stick. "What? You yokels never been to a Hive city before?"

"That's precisely what the enemy would have you think!" snapped a familiar and much maligned voice.

Frost almost groaned. _Emperor damn it, he sure knows the right time to show up, doesn't he?_

Commissar Ridzik strode towards the spot where the squad was gathered. As he approached them, he must have noticed one of the native civilians, either fleeing or perhaps offering surrender, but Ridzik simply aimed his laspistol at him. *BLAM*. He'd already tried interrogating several prisoners and must have lost his patience over the whole language barrier issue. Ridzik took a good look at the gate, and noticed the bodies of the two rebel enforcers laying in front of it, steam rising from their singed clothes and bullet holes where the lasbolts had hit them. "Clearly, these _faithless_ rebel scum were willing to give their lives defending this entrance because there is something important within. You! Set a pack of meltabombs; we'll blow these gates wide open and see what exactly the rebels are trying to hide down there."

It was probably scared civilians, but Sgt. Frost begrudgingly complied, setting about retrieving satchel charges from Pvt. Vanko's backpack. Just then, the vox crackled to life.

"Calling all units. I repeat: calling all units. Over."

Commissar Ridzik made sure he was the one to answer the call. "Come in," he barked, "any success contacting the fleet? Over."

"Negative, sir. However, we've ascertained the location of the enemy leadership. Colonel Radcek orders all units to converge west immediately, to the district the natives call..." there was a pause. "Kuntsevo. Be advised: scouts notify us that several enemy forces are converging towards city center, including large formations of infantry, supporting armor, and aircraft."

"About time they woke up and realized we were here," remarked Sgt. Frost, snapping a fresh power pack into his lasgun, "well, no time like the present."

* * *

 **Somewhere...**

Ahn Soonae gasped as she blinked awake. It took another moment for the agony to hit her, but when it did, it was like a freight train. She writhed about in her chair, her seatbelt still holding her tightly down. It was dark all around her, the aircraft lights were all out, except for the light that was shining in her face. She also heard voices accompanying it.

"...hurt not as badly as the others."

"I can't believe it! It's a bloody miracle..."

As Soonae's blurred vision slowly returned to clarity, she could see that the light was coming from a flashlight. There were two people behind it. One of them, the man, was another passenger who must have been sitting elsewhere in the plane. The other one, the woman, was a stewardess, though not the one who had been serving Soonae earlier.

"Where... where..." began Soonae, but her voice failed her. The stewardess knelt down and gave her a cup of water to drink.

"Please, relax," she began, "you're alright. We'll get help."

The passenger, who must have been a doctor, knelt down next to her and spent a minute examining Soonae; she didn't like it at all. "She looks okay for the most part," he concluded, "bruising and shock mainly. She'll be fine for now, let's get back to the others." He stood up and went to the aid of another ailing passenger a couple rows ahead. The stewardess followed him, and Soonae noticed that she was limping. It seemed that everyone had taken a severe beating in this ordeal.

The aircraft around her was dark but certainly not silent; Soonae could hear moaning and cries of pain from all around her. The aircraft evidently had come to a stop for she could no longer hear the engines running, but she couldn't see where or how they had come down. She looked to her right; through the darkness, she could faintly see and hear some of the passengers there, all still fastened into their seats, moving slightly. But many others did not move or make any sound at all; either they were unconscious, or they were... dead.

She slowly craned her head to the left, as much as it pained her to do so, the stinging not just in her neck but throughout her whole body. The kindly old man sitting next to her was slumped forward, his head against the seat in front; he wasn't moving. She slowly held her hand up to him (again, far easier said than done), and nudged him gently. "Wake up," she tried to speak, but again her voice failed her and it came out as more a whimper.

There was blood on his face, dripping from both eyes and also from his forehead - perhaps from where his head had hit the seat during impact? But it was clear that he was no more among the living.

* * *

"Sir, we are at crash site," announced the pilot at the controls of the Mil Mi-8 helicopter, of the Korean People's Army Air Force 8th Air Division, stationed in Orang.

Behind the pilot, Major Gwak grunted in agreement. He looked down. It was still the early hours of dawn; the horizon to the east had just began to turn blue and pink, but it was still dark everywhere else. However, the helicopter's spotlights shone brightly, illuminating the hulking form of the jet aircraft laying sprawled out across the beach, like a gigantic beached whale. A long, wide, and deep trough had been dug out of the wet sand behind it, that stretched for hundreds of meters; it was littered with little pieces of debris and sheets of metal, the landing gear, a whole engine, countless little personal effects, and so on, but otherwise the fuselage looked to be in one piece, albeit dented and collapsed in places.

"It looks like a... a..." Beside Gwak, Lt. Namgung squinted hard as he flipped through the booklet in his hand - it was a guide to the different types and classes of aircraft used by the capitalists, complete with a simple schematic and some details printed on each page (like how to recognize them and, if necessary, what were the appropriate countermeasures against them). He found one page that had a picture on it that looked right. "Uh, it looks like a... _Boe-Wing Seven-Four-Seven_?"

"A what?" snapped Captain Dongbang, who was seated further behind them.

"The big one, the double-decker," said Lt. Namgung. His eyes lit up for a moment. "Any chance we can repair it and use it ourselves? Oh, the Fatherly Leader would love this!"

"I don't think anyone's fixing _that_ up anytime too soon," remarked Gwak.

"With the Dear Leader's blessing and support behind us, we surely can!" insisted Namgung.

"Miserable capitalist pig-dogs and their miserable plane!" sneered Capt. Dongbang, "we should gun them down where they lie!" Gwak noticed that Dongbang was standing pretty close to the PK machine gun they kept mounted next to the sliding doors, almost as if he intended to use it right there and then, slam those doors open and begin shooting holes in the already downed aircraft out of sheer spite.

Gwak shook his head. "Remember our orders," he said, sternly, "any survivors will be far more useful to us alive than dead."

Gwak turned back to look at the plane. Word from the other KPAAF bases was that the wreckage of two other Southern jets that had crashed over the last few hours had been found, though there were mixed messages being sent from the other base commanders as to whether there were any survivors recovered or not. This one though looked to be still largely intact and Gwak, being one of the senior officers at his air base, had seen fighter pilots survive wrecks worse than this. Good. Every living capitalist they could find would be useful; even if they could not be... _reeducated_ and brought firmly into the Fatherly Leader's embrace, at the very least they could be interrogated for useful information, and then held for ransom or exchanged for prisoners.

* * *

 _ **A note on geography** : in writing these chapters, I had envisioned the air battle as taking place somewhere in the middle of the Sea Of Japan. Because Soviet airspace was strictly off-limits in the 80's, flights to Korea from America and Europe would have to fly a route that would take them over Hokkaido, Japan. If you take a look at a map, you'll see that Vladivostok and Chuguyevka air base are pretty close, but otherwise the nearest land would be somewhere along the Northeastern coast of North Korea. It's not detailed just how badly damaged the 747's tail was from the lascannon strike, but you can use your own imagination on that front, and ditching in the sea was probably not the preferable option._

 _ **Also** : apologies for disappointing readers. The Kindly Old Man is not the Emperor after all, although he is a (proto) psyker, and died from the psychic strain of helping guide and land a crippled 747. But we know that the Emperor is still out there, somewhere..._


	13. Down In Africa

_And now for something special: thanks goes to CaekDaemon, author of "The Many Sons Of Winter", who wrote this next chapter._

* * *

 **Chapter XIII:**

 **DOWN IN AFRICA  
**

 **Far Above the Terra Nova Residential District...**

Apothecary Mac'am paid close attention to his battle brothers as the drop pod trembled furiously, shaking from the force of ground based batteries and the force of atmospheric entry, ever vigilant in his duties of monitoring the health of his comrades in arms, prepared for the possibility that a round from the defending traitor batteries might pierce the drop pod's armored heart and maim one of his sworn charges, and he looked to them all and saw no fear, neither in the movements of the armored sentinels of green and black and gold, and neither in the heart rate and other physiological information that their suits relayed to his Diagnostor helmet. The veteran marine turned his attention to his Narthecium, the vital tool that was to him what a bolter was to every other brother, or a lasgun to a common Guardsman - a tool more important than Mac'am himself, for it was with it that the future of their chapter, the future of the Salamanders and of Vulkan's genetic legacy, was maintained, and it bore many modifications from its original form, as all equipment used by the Salamanders often did, and most notably of all, additional stasis tubes so that more geneseed might be recovered and preserved in the heat of battle... a lesson well learnt from the Badab War.

And it was exactly that bloody war that was the reason why they were there, entering the atmosphere of a world embattled by a turncloak governor alongside so many other forces and two of their cousin chapters, the Crimson Fists and the Black Templars both.

In the Badab War, the Second Company had proven its worth time and time again on the battlefields against the renegades, but they had paid a price in blood for each and every victory in the way that only a conflict of Astartes against Astartes could bring, and were once again sent into the furnace of battle in the Third War Of Armageddon, adding to their depletion of their ranks. Such heavy losses had needed replacement if the Second Company was to remain combat effective and worthy of the Chapter. For that, Captain Pellas Mir'san had saw fit to request replacement troops from the reserve companies, and the Chapter Master had granted his request on the condition that he would carry out a "training campaign." That way, these fresher and less experienced initiates would be more properly integrated into the company's structure and seasoned by fighting alongside the battle hardened veterans of the Badab War and a thousand other battlefields, the fires of war allowed to weld them into their squads and positions the same way that a forge's flames could mend broken steel together again.

And for that, many of the officers and specialists of the Second Company had been given the task of watching over these new recruits and ensuring that they did not spend their lives cheaply in their inexperience and eagerness to prove their courage and worth to their fellow brothers, and the Apothecary was no exception, surrounded by brothers from both of the reserve chapters and one true veteran who had fought with him on Sharprais. There was Gel'av, Wo'han, Xav'iaer, Fwe'go, I'del, Ke'jav, O'caz, Ka'nec, Keo'mal, all of them were brought from the reserve squads, with only Ko'van, sergeant of the tactical squad that would accompany the Apothecary into battle and provide protection for his work on the wounded and the dying and the dead, having any true battle experience, and he had only been in the Emperor's service for just a handful of years shy of one hundred and fifty.

Mac'am had nearly twice that.

Then, suddenly, there was a powerful shake, a long and terrible rumble like that of a mighty tremor indicating the imminent eruption of one of Nocturne's countless volcanoes, enough to make even the towering and heavy Space Marines tremble in their suits of ceramite, and with it came a rushing _scream_ past the drop pod's outer plating... and then, silence. Silence but for the sound of the pod entering the thickest part of the atmosphere and the fast, panting sounds of maneuvering thrusters correcting their trajectory.

"Brother Apothecary," came the voice of Brother Gel'av, a Tactical Marine who had been freshly transferred from the ranks of the Fifth Company not long before, a chain of salamander teeth dangling from his right pauldron where the Chapter's sigil stood, unmarred by scratch or chip or any other sign of recent battle. "The Planetary Defense Forces have stopped firing."

"I can hear that, battle brother, and you are correct," the Apothecary answered softly, the new marine being glared at by his sergeant for stating the obvious, but the Apothecary was much more forgiving of the error, having seen countless initiates in his days in and out of the Apothecarion, taking up the the non-combative responsibilities of his brothers in times when they were away conducting field research. "Our brothers must have already arrived and captured the strongpoint."

"Not much in any planetary defense force that can resist a third of a Chapter's battle company," Ko'van added in agreement, his combi-flamer, a weapon part bolter and part flamer, resting at his side and with his left kneepad painted black to show his rank, a small amulet bearing the hammer and anvil of the Promethean Cult dangling from his armored waist. "The Captain has taken a Land Raider Redeemer with him in the first wave. No doubt he burnt the traitors out of their bunkers."

"And all the better," the Apothecary nodded. "Any defenses that we destroy will be lost for when Terra Nova is returned to the Imperium, and could compromise the planet's defense. Fire drives out the impure, and leaves the fortifications intact. Our techmarines will have little work, if such continues."

Then the drop-pod shuddered again, a low but rising growl filling the air... and then fell off completely as the drop pod struck down in the heart of one of Terra Nova's greatest settlements, a place of great habitat blocks mixed with both shopping and recreation centers and a handful of park districts to break up the grey, with the greatest and most important feature of all: a church to the God Emperor, managed by the Ecclesiarchy to tend to the populace's spiritual needs just as food and rest tended to their physical ones. Following the neutralization of the local planetary defense batteries, it was to be their first true target, as the status of the church would indicate well how deep the treachery ran in Terra Nova's heart; if it was intact and the worship of the Emperor still strong, then it would be clear that the Traitor Governor bore little loyalty amongst the masses and that the populace itself might rise in revolt against him and his forces once the Aquila was sighted in their cities once more. But if it had been defiled, tainted with the blood of loyal men and turned to the worship of the Ruinous Powers... then there was little hope of Terra Nova being restored to how it had once been.

In any case, it was to serve as a meeting place between their forces and the Adepta Sororitas and their Inquisitorial support and a rally point for the Salamanders themselves should their drop be scattered by Warp sorcery or other such foul magicks, and all members of his squad had been made to memorize the street map of the local area before boarding the drop pod so that they might find their way there no matter how far away they might be.

And with that, he removed his restraints and readied bolt pistol and chainsword alike, turning to face the massive armored door ramp, Battle Brother Wo'han and his flamer at his side and another tow marines before each of the six doors, the sergeant opposite him.

"Ready yourselves," the Apothecary said solemnly as the door hissed, shouting as loud as he could the first words of the Salamander's battle chant. " _Into the fires of battle..._ "

"... _UNTO THE ANVIL OF WAR!_ " the squad answered with a howling roar as the ramps fell and the squad leapt forward, Mac'am charging forth with chainsword roaring...

...onto a field of long green grass. The shadows of thick white clouds passing above darkened the lands below with their shadow, and from here to the horizon he saw flat land utterly devoid of any and all civilization, a healthy and virgin landscape utterly untamed by Man and without so much as a single hovel in its immaculate surface. Around he saw the flickering shadows of unfamiliar animals going about their regular existence, grazing and walking amongst the long grasses and drinking from small ponds of rainwater and a small river to the north, and with Lyman's Ear he tuned out the sound of the soft breezes through the thick meadow and heard the sound of birdsong, chirping and high, with not the sound of an engine for miles around... and for the first time in over two centuries of battle, Mac'am was as genuinely surprised as he was lost, and the readouts of his brothers in arms, the sudden spike in their heart rates that quickly returned to the normal resting pace of an Astartes, told him that they were as surprised as he, but their silence and confused glances at their surroundings told him a thousand times more.

"Something must have gone wrong during the drop," Battle Brother Wo'han said, his voice carrying the hint of surprise even through a helm adorned with golden symbols of the forge. "We must be over a hundred miles from the landing zone."

"In centuries of war, I have never seen a pod stray so far from its course," the Tactical Sergeant started, "it should not be possible. The _Pyre of Glory_ would have corrected our trajectory from orbit."

"And that is the issue, sergeant," the Apothecary said, looking towards the skies, searching for the telltale shape of the Salamander's battle barge and the massive plasma engines that shone like stars... and no matter how many times he tried, no matter how hard he tried to track the descent path of the drop pod through atmosphere, he could not find its place of origin. "The _Pyre of Glory_ is no longer there, and neither is the rest of the invasion fleet."

"Brother-Sergeant, Brother-Apothecary," spoke Brother Gel'av once more. "The atmosphere here is a different composition than expected, with less carbon dioxide and more nitrogen than it should. We must be far from any major settlement."

"Perhaps the ground fire forced the machine spirit to take a different course than was anticipated?" Brother I'del reasoned; even by the standards of the Salamanders, I'del was gifted with the ways of the forge and with such technical matters, and there had been more than a little talk of sending him to Mars so as to be trained in the ways of the Techmarine. "The fire from the defenders was heavy. If so, then..."

"Forgive my intrusion, brother, but look," O'caz said with an extended arm, pointing towards the skies close to the horizon.

And there, in the distant skies of the northwest, was another drop pod descending through the atmosphere, so far away as to look little more than a falling star coming down to earth. At so great a distance, his vox would have little chance of contacting whoever it was, or identifying exactly which chapter they came from. But the simple fact that all forces being deployed to the planet's surface were loyalists meant that, no matter who it was, they were likely in the same situation that the Salamander squad was, and together they would have a greater chance of being found by their allies, or better still, finding a transport that will allow them to return to the battlefield with only minor delay.

"Well spotted, brother," the Apothecary said, smiling slightly behind his helm. "It would seem we are not alone here, wherever we are."

Then he turned back towards the drop pod, the tallest thing for what seemed to be miles around, and noted that the green shade of its paint was not too dissimilar from that of the long grasses that surrounded it. It reminded him of the lessons of the Badab War, where even Space Marines were forced to use camouflage in order to survive the deadly combat that resulted when two chapters clashed, forced to resort to the littlest used section of the _Codex Astartes_ that said that painting one's armor to match the surrounding environment was an allowed thing, so long as the left pauldron still bore the chapter colors so as to not dishonor the spirits within the armor itself. He knew that even something as simple and disposable as a drop pod could be stripped for components by turncloak renegades - its engines could be torn out and used to propel missiles, its hull plating used to create barricades or welded onto vehicles to reinforce their armor, even its remaining propellant could be crafted into improvised explosives used to fill warheads or landmines.

All those things could threaten his cousins and his brothers, those with him and not. He would not allow that to happen.

"I will require your aid, brothers," the Apothecary said, storing boltgun and chainsword on his waist before pressing his shoulder against the drop pod's hull, putting all his superhuman strength against the metal. Without hesitation his brothers joined him, adding their might to his, and the drop pod fell onto its side, half the height it once was and far less visible amongst the tall flora and far less likely to be noticed should a traitor patrol pass through the area. With that done he rearmed himself before starting his march towards the horizon. "With me, brothers."

And a march it was, long and uneventful, but on his way he saw creatures the likes of which he had never seen before in all his years of service. There were great grey titans bigger than even a warrior clad in Terminator armor, with huge muscular legs and wide ears and a singe long nose many feet long that they used to snort water and rip up grass for feeding, calling to one another with its trumpeting noises, and they had great tusks as long as his arm. A worthy opponent for an initiate to prove his strength against, though less so than the great salamanders of Nocturne from whom his chapter and the legion that preceded took their name.

Then there was another form of grey creature, this one lurking beneath the waters of a flooded river that they marched through with little difficulty - it was a sort of bovoid with a pair of enormous fangs on the bottom jaw, and a large, fatty body and beady little eyes, perhaps a cousin to the long nosed ones that preferred the drier land and whom could reach to the tops of trees. Or perhaps not, but either way, both species seemed to stay well enough away from them or pay little attention as they passed. But such creatures seemed to have quite a lot of musculature on their body, and none of the telltale colors that were common, galaxy wide, for a creature that was poisonous, and he made a mental note to investigate such creatures more closely for whatever use they might have for the Imperium once the compliance of Terra Nova was complete. If they were able to thrive in an almost aquatic environment with little difficulty and survive on flowers, then they would be useful to a thousand different worlds as a food source, a supplement to the ever-adaptable grox, and there was no shame in an Apothecary discovering such a simple thing, for their Primarch had come from the humblest of villages and the humblest of origins and done the greatest of things in service to the God Emperor's dream of Imperium.

All Salamanders were expected to spend what little times of peace there was between campaigns and during rearmament in their domiciles on Nocturne, as all its other sons did, and it was common for them to take on a responsibility to clan and kin of some kind or another, to use their superhuman abilities to construct instead of to destroy. For most, that meant serving in the forges, as Vulkan had taught, using their centuries of experience in its warmth to teach the masses. For others, it meant aiding the clan and place of their origin however they might. For others still, it meant recording their experiences in battle and their contemplations and reflections upon Vulkan's teachings of selflessness and humility. For Mac'am, it meant applying his knowledge of physiology and medicine to aide his fellows in whatever way was needed, even if that was to treat something as mundane as the various diseases that plagued the miners who extracted the rich mineral deposits that came to Nocturne's fiery surface with every eruption and every passage of the Time of Trial and whose labors provided the world with its wealth.

And just so, for Vulkan had written in his teachings that there would one day come a time when the Imperium would have no more foes left to fight and no more wars to be won, no need for warriors, and if the blood and war of the forty-second millennium might be the hammer and anvil for an age of peace, then Mac'am would do his part to help reforge the sword into the plough and help to make it last for a million years.

But for now he would have to fight.

"My auspex detects the drop pod's transponder over this ridge," Xav'iaer said as he stood before a large hill, glancing down to the handheld scanner before placing it on his belt and raising his bolter to a resting position. "They appear to be from the Crimson Fists."

"Then let us greet our cousins and hope that they have had more fortune in finding their way to the battlefield than we," the Apothecary answered, the Tactical Sergeant nodding in agreement.

And so Mac'am went, leading the way as before, bolter lowered...

...and rather than finding the red handed marines from their cousin chapter, he found a fully deployed drop pod bristling with assault cannons where the harnesses for its passengers would have been, an automated platform intended to support marines deploying into heavily defended areas with heavy weapons fire, scanning the surrounding area over and over and over for anything that its rudimentary intelligence might determine as hostile, paying no attention to the Salamander squad.

The voice amplifier in the Apothecary's helm made his sigh and its low edge of fury audible. His brothers were fighting against the turncloaks a thousand miles away, perhaps even more, taking wounds in battle and dying from them due to his absence, even from wounds that he would have found easy to treat, their progenoid glands impossible to extract and at a risk of loss.

"The Deathstorm pod's ammunition count is at full, Brother-Apothecary," spoke Sergeant Ko'van, walking back towards the white armored physician as he surveyed the area for any landmarks that he might recognize from the maps, anything that could guide them towards the battlefield. The rest of the squad entered access codes given to them by the Company Captain before the drop, codes that would allow them to withdraw ten percent of the pod's ammunition and no more, just as the ones that their chapter had shared with their cousins allowed, meant to allow friendly forces to resupply from one another if they were somehow cut off from their own brothers. "It has not engaged any of the renegades since planetfall."

"Then it would seem that we are even further from our brothers than we had hoped," the Apothecary answered once more.

"Fortunately, its sensory augur is more powerful than our own," the Tactical Sergeant said as the squad reformed, a hint of relief in his voice. "A small settlement appears to be to our north, approximately fifteen minutes by foot if we travel quickly. It is little larger than a village, but it should allow us to find our way to the capital or to friendly forces who can hurry us there."

"Then let us waste not a moment," Mac'am said quickly, starting off northwards at a speed far greater than that of a normal man's sprint, and yet little more straining than that of a quick jog for him or for the brothers who followed close behind. His autosenses stated that he was traveling in excess of thirty miles per hour, a speed that would quickly destroy the joints of any normal human being but which could be sustained for hours by a full Astartes in his power armor with little issue but perhaps a little fatigue after eight hours of it, but far from enough to jeopardize their combat effectiveness.

At such speeds, it did not take long for them to close the distance towards their destination, even as the terrain grew rougher and the hills steeper and the soil drier, darker and harder, the sound of their fast and heavy stride echoing through the hills like a stampede. After just a few minutes of it the auto-senses, that complex array of systems integrated into his helmet, detected the sound of gunfire, rapid uncoordinated bursts occasionally punctuated by the greater sawing sounds of a heavy stubber and the thundering bang of a heavy cannon. And from all that he could not help but smile, as he knew that it meant that he was finally heading in the right direction, finally nearing the brothers he was sworn to heal and protect, finally nearing the place where he might need to carry out his grim duty of delivering the Emperor's Mercy to a maimed brother.

With every step and every second of their advance, he grew that little bit closer, and as they went up and down another hill, he finally got his first glimpse of the village... and it was swiftly obvious to him that it was little deserving of the word, for this was surely not a settlement that had been there for even a dozen years, but one that could have only been the result of anti-loyalist purges by the traitor governor seeking to consolidate the rule of his own petty empire, for even the smallest and poorest of villages of Terra Nova should have surely been better developed. Many of the buildings were small and decrepit things, wooden structures surrounded by small fields of crops and semi-functional irrigation channels and lean-tos, all clearly lacking in both basic engineering thought and in the utilities that could be found in every Imperial settlement but those of the least developed worlds - clean water, electrical power, waste treatment, all seemingly absent.

But not all was this way: there was the core of a small settlement in the midst of what was surely a refugee camp, with buildings of brick and plaster, and amongst them he saw familiar things, things more likely to be found in a true village - houses, small squat things of two stories with balconies dotted with tables and chairs and the occasional potted fern, but a thousand times superior to the shacks nearby. A large stout building in the center was clearly a food distribution center of some kind, perhaps a store that would connect the rural settlements to the greater food processing facilities of the primary cities and allow them to purchase the occasional luxury item. Not far away was the best built building of them all, a small chapel of the kind that a missionary from the Ecclesiarchy might deploy when first introducing a world to the Imperial Creed, only that there was a small cross atop its bell tower rather than the Aquila (though it was not unknown for the ministers of the Ecclesiarchy to use local symbols and items of faith when first introducing the Cult to a newly contacted world, using things that they were familiar with to explain the Emperor's tenants). Past that, the last and largest of the structures, a simple wooden thing of two floors with a cracked and crumbling coating of paint and plaster to protect against the elements, most likely some sort of communal meeting area or Administratum office, a place from where the rest of the settlement could be properly governed, their records tracked and their criminals and malcontents stored safely away from the masses until the arrival of the Emperor's justice and their transferral to a more permanent holding facility.

And in the streets was blood and bodies.

And though the crops in their irrigation ditches broke up his view and made it more difficult for one to identify the sides, they could not hide the sights and sound of battle, or block the infrared light that passed through the air to the photolenses of his helmet and were processed into a clear, thermal image of the battlefield, viewable at a mere thought.

If the two sides fighting against one another were aware of their presence, they took no heed of it, locked in a life and death struggle with one another. Slowing down from a sprint to a walk to avoid the sound of their approach from deafening the noise of their battle and revealing their presence too early, Mac'am looked through the thick growth, trying to identify the two factions struggling against one another. It was not too uncommon for traitor units to turn their weapons against each other just as they had forgotten their vows to the Master of Mankind, vying for the affections of their new master in the chaos of rebellion in the hope that they might receive the best equipment and the greatest rewards for their treason. But they could just have easily been true hearted loyalists fighting to protect their homes from the usurper's own forces, praying to the Emperor for salvation in their darkest hour. It went without saying or word that his brothers knew as well as he did that to risk battle without first identifying who was ally and who was traitor would be to risk harming those who should be their friends, and aiding those who should be their foe, and there was no quicker way to damnation than to shed the blood of a loyal and courageous Guardsman devoted to his duty.

"Brother-Sergeant," the Apothecary said, his voice as low as the immense stature of an Astartes and his vox grill could allow, looking for any sign of a regimental standard or for the familiar wings of the Imperial Aquila, the eternal symbol of the Emperor's dominion. "Can you identify these forces? See if they are friend or foe?"

"I do not recognize them or their equipment," the Tactical Sergeant said as he crouched down to lower his profile, half concealed but for his helm by the raised earth that surrounded the irrigation works. "They carry no banners with them, and have little identifying imagery upon their uniforms. Their weapons are of an unfamiliar manufacture as well, and not a standard that I have ever seen before. Too primitive to be Xeno work, but too well manufactured to have been hastily assembled by militiamen."

"A tell-tale sign that the Traitor Governor has been preparing his rebellion for some time," Brother Gel'av added in agreement. "He must have built up a massive store of weaponry for his revolt."

"But that does not explain his lack of orbital craft," Ko'van replied. "The greatest chance for him to have stopped our invasion was in space, yet the Imperial Navy and our own Battle Barge cut through all resistance with little difficulty. Even the Orks would have been able to secure orbital control with so few monitors to protect the world."

"The Governor's hand must have been forced before he was ready," Mac'am reasoned, vision feed zooming to four times magnification as he watched the firefight more closely, raising bolter and chainsword to readiness once more...

...and with such a view of the fighting, it was easy to see that the two factions were radically different from one another. One had proper uniforms covered with rudimentary camouflage patterns and steel helmets on most of the men, if of varying quality, and they carried rapidly firing autoguns that spat out brass casings with every burst. Beside them drove a tank of a kind that Mac'am had never seen before in all his years of service, a thing with a heavily sloped front and a semi-spherical turret, lacking sponsons or anything of the sort, and behind it were a row of hastily armed civilian vehicles to which the rest of their firepower was attached, carrying heavy stubbers on a simple mounting. They were clearly the attacker, pressing the offensive against a force that was retreating into cover, using the buildings and heaps of furniture as improvised fortifications. The defenders were notably worse equipped - though all of them were armed with autoguns, ones of the same curious construction as their opponents, not all of them wore camouflaged clothing or even proper uniforms at all. Half of the force were clearly a militia comprised of the local settlement's own populace and wearing whatever clothes they had for their civilian life, lacking discipline but having the immense fury and determination that only a man in defense of clan and home could. But despite this great determination, they were being systematically overwhelmed, their opponent's armor blowing them out of cover with every blast of its high explosive ammunition.

And as he watched, it turned its turret towards one of the nearest houses, raising its barrel towards an upper floor full of militamen... and with a deafening _**bang**_ and a woosh of smoke, the balcony exploded in a shower of splinters and its men in a tangle of limbs and body parts as the structure collapsed in on itself in a plume of dust and smoke. Superhuman reactions caught sight of an emblem embroidered onto the sleeve of a uniformed militiamen as the arm it was upon was blown through the air by the devastating explosion. And on that shoulder patch was a rudimentary depiction of an eagle, white wings spread and clutching spear and shield, surrounded by three rings of black, red and green. That was enough.

"Brothers!" cried Mac'am, rising to his full stature in an instant, chainsword revving to speed with the press of an armored finger, "those militiamen wear the Aquila on their shoulders and keep their loyalty to Holy Terra, and require our aid! We shall relieve them, in the Emperor's name! Brother-Sergeant, neutralize their armor! Everyone else, with me! **For the Chapter!** "

 _ **"FOR THE CHAPTER!"**_ his battle brothers echoed as the Salamanders charged forth through the muddy earth of the irrigation ditches. White Aquilas snapped into existence on his helmet's display with a thought's command over each of the friendly militiamen, just as they did over his brothers, and just as pale green diamonds, targeting reticules, did over the traitors. A number appeared besides the symbol of the glyph in the corner of his vision, counting thirty five in total, and a square box and a rounded rectangle inside, the ancient rune for armored vehicles, appeared alongside and over the vehicle.

All attentions snapped towards the Astartes at the sound of their thundering battle cry and the stomping of their boots as they closed to flamer range, the Apothecary watching as a number of the traitors and loyalists alike dropped their weapons in stunned surprise at their appearance, victims of the phenomenon of transhuman terror, but this made no difference to the Apothecary and his brothers. With the first boom of bolter fire, with the first hiss of the round as the propellant within ignited and sent it screaming towards its target, the number thirty five became thirty three, the bolt blowing through a traitor's front and out his back only to pierce the man behind and detonate in a shower of gore and shrapnel up the nearest wall. The base human instinct to survive and a rush of adrenaline sent them scrambling into action... but even this could not save them, with a dozen more falling in a second before they could ever hope to react, the Salamanders gunfire deadly accurate even when on the move or on the charge, every forward step bringing them closer to melee range and making their targets all the easier to hit, and all that whilst the solid slugs of their foes' primitive weapons merely sparked and shattered on impact with the ceramite plating of an Astartes' battle armor, not even chipping the deep green paint of their heraldic colors, and men ran at the sight of the impotent effect.

With a furious leap and a wordless cry, the Apothecary leapt from the muddy ridge that was the streetside part of the irrigation field, chainsword overhead and roaring as he cleaved a traitor in two from head to hip in a single slice, the steaming crimson of freshly spilled blood spraying up over his half white armor and pooling at his feet, and he raised his bolter, firing fast snap shots that sent every turncloak he looked at to death, and then he looked to the earthwork to see Battle Brother Wo'han perched atop, flamer lowered and smouldering softly.

"By **FIRE** be **PURGED** , traitor filth!"

And then the great flamer let forth its molten fury and it was as if a firedrake from his homeworld had come to the battlefield, spewing forth a liquid fire that consumed men whole and left them screaming as melting flesh sloughed from charring bones, running for waters that could not extinguish the blaze as even the steel of their weapons succumbed to the immense heat of burning promethium, melting to glowing embers littered with the occasional popping of an exploding bullet. Through the smoke and flames, he saw Brother-Sergeant Ko'van climb onto the back of the tank, gripping the edge of what was surely the gunner's hatch before ripping it off with a tug and tossing it aside, before reaching in to pull out the gunner himself, and throwing that traitor to the dirt road below with so much force that his back broke with a sickening _**crunch**_. The tank gunner twisted and writhed in pain for a moment before falling still, but the Sergeant paid no heed, turning his combi-flamer towards the opening to the vehicle's fighting compartment before flooding it with fire, smoke pouring out of the barrel bore before turning to a furious flame as the crew was consumed by the bonfire of burning ammunition within.

With that, the target counter reached zero.

Mac'am then turned towards the stunned loyalists, walking towards them with weapon lowered. One, who seemed to be an officer of the local Planetary Defense Force from the distinct shape and coloration of his red beret, stepped forward, finding his voice in a language that the Apothecary could not recognize, and with his words, his orders, his men lowered their weapons to the ground at last, staring at the marching Space Marines with awe. The Apothecary stopped before him, the officer looking up towards the giant with eyes filled with surprise and no little amount of fear, and for a brief moment, there was silence as the Apothecary's shadow loomed over him.

Then there was the sound of laughter, his and not the Apothecary's, growing stronger with every moment and spreading from one man to the next, becoming a delighted cheer, and Mac'am smiled as he extended an open hand, the officer taking it and the Space Marine shaking it up and down, as gently as he could to avoid the risk of accidental injury, before letting go.

"I am Apothecary Mac'am, of the Salamander's Second Company," the Apothecary said in Low Gothic, his voice as quiet as he could to avoid harming the more sensitive ears of a mortal man. "We have come to aid you in returning this world to the Emperor's grace."

There was a blubbering of words in response, of which the Apothecary understood none.

"Do you not know the Gothic language?"

Again, an outpouring of words, more surprised than the last, enough that it was clear that it was supposed to be a full sentence and the intonation and rise of pitch meant it was surely a question, but the Apothecary understood none. He reached for the ear of his helmet, feeling with an armored finger if any damage had been inflicted to the sensors, but both his armor and his hand said that there was nothing wrong, that no damage had been inflicted by the attack.

"Brothers," the Apothecary said over the vox, "can any of you understand what words it is they say? I believe my helm may have been damaged."

"I do not believe that there is any damage to your armor, Brother-Apothecary," said Battle Brother Keo'mal as he walked over to his side. "I did not understand their words either."

"Nor did I, brothers," a confused I'del said, bolter in hand. "They do not appear to be speaking any known language, and their buildings are not adorned with the Gothic alphabet, but with another I do not recognize."

"That is an impossibility, brother," Sergeant Ko'van said with his own surprise. "Low Gothic or a creole of it is spoken upon every world in the Imperium. It subsumes local languages."

"But it would seem here that it has either not yet reached this part of Terra Nova or itself been absorbed," Brother Fwe'go said, the little spoken Astartes breaking his silence for the first time in the mission thus far. "Whatever the cause, it would seem they cannot understand our speech."

"This bodes ill," Brother-Sergeant Kovan said lowly. "We must be far from the greatest development on the planet for them to not speak the language here."

The Apothecary sighed. If the Gothic languages and the Gothic alphabet alike were absent from this part of Terra Nova, then what the Sergeant said was right - it mattered not how it had happened, but they were surely on the opposite side of the planet from their intended destination. He had no choice but to resort to the last possible tool of communication, the most ancient of all the languages of man, one whose history began over ten thousand years before the age of the Imperium or even the Age of Strife, at the very dawn of their race, a language that was as primitive as it was effective.

Hand gestures.

Forming his right hand as though he was holding a quill, he moved it through the air as though he was writing upon parchment.

"Brother?" I'del asked with an intrigued surprise. "Are you certain that this will work? The language barrier is likely to be unbreakable without hours of..."

Almost instantly, the officer reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a small notepad of bleached white paper and a tiny featherless quill of some kind, a plastic thing that operated using a ball rather than a point.

"It would seem that the language barrier is not unbreakable, brother," Battle-Brother Keo'mal said with mild amusement as the Apothecary took the writing instrument and paper, careful to avoid crushing either in his grip. He drew the shape of a vox tower and its antenna upon the surface, adding the curve of waves emanating from the tower's peak, before showing the page to the officer.

Then he tapped a finger against the cheek of his helm, pointing to his eye, before pointing to the image on the paper. Instantly the officer gasped and laughed and uttered a word that sounded like " _ray-dee-oh"_ before pointing towards the centermost building of the settlement, towards the small antenna that rose upwards from its rear side.

The Apothecary nodded in gratitude.

"Brother I'del, I may require your assistance in configuring their transmitter for our purposes," he said as he turned towards the village's center structure, leaving the squad to Sergeant Ko'van to command, who swiftly ordered the rest to protect the village from any possible traitor reinforcements. "If the device can contact the Captain, then we will be able to arrange for transportation to the battlefield by Thunderhawk."

"As you command, Brother-Apothecary," I'del said with an obedient nod, following the veteran towards and into the building.

And what a strange place it was, for despite Mac'am's estimate of it being an office of the Administratum, it was surely not, but some sort of meeting hall instead, a place full of chairs and with a stage against the far wall with a podium in the middle on which the lights of the above were shone, and on the left wall there were a number of tables and a wooden board to which were affixed other sheets of paper and images and other such things, a message board. Not far from the stage were three doors; two of them had wooden signs bearing strange glyphs, with the one having a depiction of something that appeared to be a man from the side, but with some sort of tentacle jutting out from the middle of his back and connecting around to his knee in a circular path (a room for the inspection and reporting of mutation, perhaps?) and the other had some strange depiction of a man and a woman, their heads disconnected from their bodies and made into round circles, stood next to one another with a barrier line between them (were the sexes segregated from one another, here?) for whatever reason.

The third door had nothing upon its surface or above it, however, and the Apothecary walked through the hall with the sound of his footsteps echoing off the ceiling above and the walls around as a loud thumping. On the door, in the place of a handle, was a strange round object of metal, an ornamentation that Mac'am could not recognize, but he reached out for it nevertheless and twisted it till it made a clicking sound and he pushed forward, tearing the door from its hinges in an instant and snapping the metallic knob from its lock.

"A rotating door handle," Brother I'del said with intrigue as he took the door from the Apothecary and examined the remains of its lock. "Cast from poor quality metal, but of a clever design so as to prevent the opener from using gravity to assist their movement... if affixed to a plasteel door and calibrated properly, this could be used to create doors which would require an Astarte's strength to open."

"A useful find," Mac'am said as Brother I'del plucked the remains of the mechanism from the door frame, putting them into an ammunition pouch on his waist for safe keeping and later study. "But we should focus on the task at hand."

"Of course, brother," I'del said with another nod as the Apothecary passed through the door frame, needing to hunch down and turn sideways to fit through so short an opening before following himself.

As he entered, he looked around and saw a room even stranger than the meeting hall had been, a sparsely decorated place with cracking plaster all around and a dim electro-candle above, lacking any of the runes or decor devoted to the Omnissiah that would fill a proper voxmat. In the corner was the device itself, a large vox caster device, but although its external shape was familiar enough, the displays and dials and buttons on the front were radically different from what he had ever seen before, and he knew in an instant that even I'del and his affinity for technology and cogitators and their machine spirits was similarly surprised.

"This device was different than I had anticipated," the Apothecary said, "will you be able to modify it?"

"Perhaps, Brother-Apothecary. It seems more... rudimentary than any vox caster that I have seen before," I'del remarked as he picked up the main unit, examining it closely but with gentle hands. "I believe the principle of its operation is the same however. Receiving a vox signal should not be difficult, but it will likely be impossible without a true techpriest to transmit further than a few hundred miles."

"You have my permission to carry out the modifications, brother. Should you succeed, I will give the Master of the Forge my personal recommendation."

"Thank you, Brother-Apothecary," I'del answered warmly and he began work, speaking quietly the High Gothic prayers of the Omnissiah as he removed the combat knife from the sheath around his left leg, the blade nearly as long as any Aspirant's forearm, and slipped the blade through a tiny opening in the face of the machine, prying it out before, delicately, sliding the components out of the casing first.

And then he began his work, with all the precision that only a son of Vulkan could have; all Salamanders, no matter how great they might have become, started their service to the chapter in the great forges of Nocturne at no older than the age of seven, working beneath the eyes of those who might one day be their brothers, full Space Marines, who they served as apprentices. Such a thing meant that each and every Salamander knew his way around a forge and could maintain their own equipment in the field, yes, but it also meant that they had no small quantity of technical aptitude and an understanding of such things that could be repurposed for one thing or another as needed, as it had been with the Chapter's Techmarines on Armageddon, who had busied themselves with the task of repairing the planet's most vital infrastructure and restoring power to billions of people. But more than that, craftsmanship and engineering was in their very blood, for their beloved Primarch, Vulkan, had himself been a smith of legend as well as a warrior, creating an enormous quantity of mastercrafted weapons and armor and other such equipment, even if it had been his brother Rogal Dorn who had the superior skill in the planning and execution of large scale construction projects.

Still, their gene-father's legacy of fine, precise work still burnt strong, giving them a talent for handicrafts, even those that might normally be out of a smith's purview... such as I'del's work on the _"ray-dee-oh"_ device that the militiaman had referred to. The internals were familiar to him, in the same way that the internals of a Guardsman and a Space Marine were similar - there was an obvious power supply, an obvious speaker and an obvious array of wires that led to the instrumentation on the front of the panel and another to the antenna array. But it was there that the similarities between it and a voxcaster began to diverge, for just as how even the lowliest of Astartes might have a dozen more organs than any Guardsman, so did a voxcaster seem to have a dozen more components over the device strewn out over the table before him, having additional amplifiers and backups and auxiliary backups and many more things that allowed the machine to function in any environment, whether that be in the depth of a muddy jungle, a scorching desert or the vacuum of space. And what was there seemed to be a third the size it should be, and had the Salamander Apothecary wondering if what was before him was a relic of a past age on Terra Nova, a device from before the world had been claimed for the Imperium during the Great Crusade, for he knew from the remembrancer texts of the Great Crusade that the colony had three billion citizens and had been on the cusp of rediscovering atomic energy when Sanguinius had arrived and brought the world into compliance without a shot being fired, becoming a strong and well developed colony within the region with a population ideal for settling new worlds, being proud, hardworking and utterly devoted to the Imperium and its Emperor.

And in many ways, that was the very reason why so many troops had been sent to bring the world into compliance once more, for what did it tell the sons of the son, the colonies of a world that itself was a colony of Terra, if the world from whence they came from had revolted against the Imperium that it had once so faithfully served? It could be the spark of a subsector-wide revolt, and such a large scale insurrection would trigger other opportunists within the region to raise their own banners in treason, bringing about a long and bloody war that could cost the lives of millions, even billions, and all due to one man forgetting his vows... or perhaps ensorcelled by powers intent on Mankind's destruction.

Regardless of the cause, this invasion was to cut such treason off at the head and restore normalcy as quickly as possible, to contain the plague of rebellion before it could spread beyond Terra Nova to other worlds and to maintain peace throughout the subsector.

And whilst the Apothecary reflected upon the nature of the mission in grim silence, I'del carefully slid the components back into their housing, pressing everything together once more and returning the faceplate to its resting place with a soft click, testing the dials upon its front. With a hiss of harsh noise, the machine spirit within came to life once more, and from the static came the pulsating sound of a Locator Beacon, broadcasting a signal to orbit every thirty seconds so that the _Pyre of Glory_ , the Battle Barge of the Salamander's Second Company, could send additional supplies as needed. With a soft turn, I'del turned the dial to the left, close to the maximum...

...and then he passed the Apothecary the small, box shaped device that was surely the microphone of the primitive voxcaster.

"We cannot broadcast directly onto company frequencies without a cryptographic cipher," I'del said as the Apothecary took the device in hand, careful to avoid damaging it. "However, they will be able to receive our transmission and will be able to reply."

"You do good work, brother," the Apothecary smiled behind his helm before removing it and taking it under his arm, his battle armor hissing for but a moment as the atmospheric seal was broken and cut off again.

In the surface of the pale white metal of his helm he saw his own reflection; the sight of his own dark skin and crimson eyes, eyes that had been scarlet when he had been in service for but a century but had long since darkened just as his skin had lightened, being more akin to slowly smouldering parchment than to the charcoal it once was, and just above his left brow were the two service studs that marked two centuries of duty to the chapter, hand forged from Nocturnean iron, and in a mere two years he would have his third, if he lasted those years.

"This is Brother-Apothecary Mac'am, of the Salamanders' Second Company, speaking to any friendly forces in range of this transmission," he started, waiting a few moments for a response before continuing, choosing his words carefully to avoid the risk of giving the turncloaks useful information. "We request assistance in the form of transportation."

For a moment, there was silence.

"Brother-Apothecary, it is a pleasure to hear your voice once more," came the deep voice of the Company Captain himself, Captain Pellas Mir'san, veteran of the Badab War and one of the company's greatest swordsmiths, the sound of rolling treads in the background. "What is your situation, brother? Speak freely, for we have reason to believe that the traitors lack the ability to listen in on our communications entirely."

The Apothecary looked to I'del, then, and even through the emotionless metal of his helm, he knew the Tactical Marine was as surprised as he.

"We appear to have landed several hundred miles off course, Brother-Captain, and cannot find the objective nor landmarks with which we might be able to find our position," he started. "We have located a small settlement, designation and location unknown, and aided local militia in securing it from renegade forces, taking no injuries, but encounters with local population have revealed that they do not speak the Gothic languages, High or Low, nor keep the Gothic alphabet."

"Our situation has been a similar one, Brother-Apothecary," Captain Pellas answered, his voice softening. "We have reason to believe that we never arrived on Terra Nova, and that we have somehow been translocated to another world entirely. Brother-Epistolary Lik'al cannot make contact with the astropaths of the _Pyre of Glory_ and neither can we spot the Battle Barge in the sky, or any craft belonging to our cousin chapters or to the Imperial Navy, though we have spotted several dozen drop pods making planetfall in our vicinity, one of which must have surely been yours, as it appears that the bulk of the company is with myself."

"Then it would appear that our forces have been scattered by whatever event brought us here, Brother-Captain," the Apothecary answered dutifully.

"Indeed, Brother-Apothecary, and Lik'al believes that the cause is warp sorcery of some kind, perhaps the actions of a black cult on Terra Nova. But whatever the cause, it appears we have been sent far away from our goal and Chapter," the Captain acknowledged before continuing. "I would hope to call a council between all ranking officers of the compliance fleet so that we might determine more accurately what has transpired, but we have not been able to contact their commanders - there seems to be a psyker of truly _immense_ power present on this world, so powerful that their mere existence is rendering it difficult to communicate over any great distance."

"In any case, our original objectives are no longer relevant," Captain Pellas said at last. "Our first priority is to rally our forces and then form up with our allies as soon as possible. Brother-Techmarine Vu'shal tells me that you are one hundred and twenty one miles west of our location, in place that the local populace refers to as... _Soo-daan_. We are in _Eee-thee-oh-pee-ah_ , near the settlement of _Ha-wah-sah_. I will dispatch a Thunderhawk to your location immediately. It will take only a few minutes for them to arrive."

"Thank you, Brother-Captain. I will ready the men to redeploy."

And with that, the Apothecary returned the handheld microphone to its receptacle upon the device and placed his helm upon his head once again, closing his eyes as he sealed it in place and only opening them again when the familiar glyphs and symbols of the photolenses and auto-senses were once again before him. Then he turned and walked out, and I'del followed as he had before, the two men carefully lowering their heads as they passed through the door before raising them again and doing the same as they exited the main meeting hall and entered the outside world once more. A great throng of villagers had gathered to see the towering Astartes, the Emperor's mailed fist, for themselves, watching with amazement as Battle-Brothers Gel'av and O'caz pushed the burnt out tank to the side of the road to allow traffic to flow once more, the local militiamen laying claim to the weapons and equipment of their fallen foes, and all around were the rest of his brothers, ready to defend the settlement in the event of another attack.

"I have contacted Captain Pellas," the Apothecary said, his voice broadcasted across the squad's own short range vox channel. "A Thunderhawk is enroute for extraction. I will tell you more once we..."

Then the Apothecary felt a light tapping upon his side. He turned, and saw nothing there, not till he looked down and saw a small child, a young boy no more than four years of age, who looked up at him with as much hope as there was was fear. In his hand was a tiny pamphlet of paper, and he extended it to show that on its surface was a bright red cross, and flipped to the next page to show a small image of two serpents coiled around a rod beneath a pair of wings, the symbol of the Officio Medicae and a cousin to the Prime Helix that adorned every Apothecary in the entire Imperium, an ancient symbol of healing and medicine that had been with Mankind for millennia beyond counting.

Then he put his tiny hand in his and pointed with the other towards one of the houses.

"Find a landing location for them, brothers," the Apothecary said gently as he started to walk, letting the child lead the way. "It seems I may be preoccupied."

"They should be able to land on the other side of the irrigation works," Sergeant Ko'van replied. "We will make sure they see it as a landing location."

"Thank you. I will be with you again in a moment," Mac'am answered as he followed the child, watching them fumble with another of those round door handles before pushing it open and waving for him to follow.

And so the Apothecary did, bowing his head once more as he stepped through a doorframe more than a foot too short and narrow for any of his chapter other than a Scout or an Initiate to be able to pass through. Inside, it was a small and humble home, with plain walls that were still the color of the base plaster, but it was a _home_ all the same, and a cherished one at that - affixed to the walls by deeply hammered in nails were pictures of family and friends and far off places, and the wooden furniture chairs and tables, though plain in appearance, were solidly constructed. And the thought that here on a world however far from Terra Nova that the craftsman's art was still alive brought a smile to the Apothecary's face, even if none saw it and even if he himself hadn't realize that he had done it. The house was a simple thing, with the room he had entered being the dining room and connected to a small kitchen in the rear and with the room on his right being the primary living space and the staircase to his left leading to what was surely the sleeping areas, and the child led him to the right...

...and there was who could only be the child's mother, lain out on a wide wooden bench, wrapped in blankets and with their head resting upon a pillow, unconscious and barely breathing, her brow covered in beads of sweat. Apothecary Mac'am strode over towards the bedridden woman, crouching down besides her as the child watched with fear. At this range his diagnostor helmet could give him a quick, almost instantaneous, readout of their vital information, showing that they would otherwise be but a few days away from death without intervention, but he raised his narthecium and extended one of the fragile things that were otherwise housed within its armored casing, a simple jet injector - as syringes were liable to fracture or otherwise be damaged during the rigors of battle - that he pressed against the exposed skin of her arm, pressing tightly before, in a reverse of the normal function, extracting a single drop of blood.

Instantly his diagnostor helmet compiled the information: her sickness was the result of a parasitic protozoan, a bloodborne disease most likely spread by insect bites, and it appeared to reproduce inside the blood itself by using the host's own red blood cells as a host, resulting in a low blood count amongst other things. An image of the source appeared in the corner of his vision a second later, and he recognized it instantly, there was no physician in the entire galaxy who would not. Plasmodium. An ancient Terran disease, it had been a killer of untold millions in a past age... in a past age. Now there was nothing that the medicine of the Imperium could not treat, and an Apothecary such as himself carried nearly as many pharmaceuticals in the armored vials upon their back as any medicae temple, and his was powerful enough to treat horrific flesh-eating pathogens the likes of which could not be found outside of the most darkest and inhospitable deathworlds. Treating what had once been known of as "malaria" in the ancient days before the birth of the Imperium would be trivial; the challenge was in providing the correct dosage to avoid organ failure, for such powerful antivirals were rarely used on anyone weaker than a fully developed Astartes because of their ability to withstand such a ferociously powerful thing.

"I pray to treat the diseased so that they might live one day more in the Emperor's service," the Apothecary said as he recalled a fitting litany, transferring a single droplet of antiviral agent into the injector along with another droplet of stimulant to give them a better chance. "Balance my abilities so that I do not harm when I seek to heal."

Then with that said, he pressed the tip against the exposed arm once more, against an artery, pressing close...

...and there was an almost inaudible hiss as the contents were forced through skin and flesh by the release of pressurized air, and he pulled it back to reveal a tiny, red ring of irritated skin, a kiss where the device had done its work. He watched, staying close, monitoring their heartbeat, their breathing, their temperature, counting the seconds in deathly silence.

By ten their pulse rose and with it came the first flutterings of consciousness, the deep breaths and the blinking of eyes and the murmured voice of a clouded mind. Mac'am rose to his feet once more, retracting the sensitive instrument back into the armored casing of his narthecium and turning to leave as the child, crying tears of joy, leapt into their mother's embrace. But their cries were not the only sound, and were soon drowned out by the growing roar of engines passing overhead, and the Apothecary passed through the house and back into the outside again as silent as a spirit. Just as promised, there was a Thunderhawk landed in the nearby field, dropping its embarkation ramp to reveal a number of his battle brothers, men from other squads who had been picked up on the way to him for certain, a full squad of Devastator Marines with their heavy bolters and a plasma cannon and another full Assault Squad, and Apothecary led his squad aboard, all of them following in a long line.

And it was a good thing that they could not see his face behind his helm, for it would not help his reputation as an ever stoic Apothecary if they saw him smiling.


	14. When Two Tribes Go To War

_From the writer: apologies to all readers for the long delay! To get us back on track, here's the next chapter. This one is a little different from previous ones in that it is presented in the style of a collection of newspaper articles and photographs. As we know, FF does not allow for posting of pictures with the story, so you'll just have to use your imagination. Onwards._

 _Also: a very special thank you to the user MrTerrorist; the chapter you've been waiting for will be coming soon!_

* * *

 **Chapter XIV:**

 **WHEN TWO TRIBES GO TO WAR**

 **The New York Times**  
 **Vol. 31, No. 16 - October 12, 1984**  
 **WAR FOR EARTH**

 **Above: the FRONT PAGE HEADLINES for** ** _The New York Times_** **on 10/12/84**. Partly in anticipation of wartime ink shortages and partly because the editing staff wanted an appropriate and respectful front cover to reflect the scale of this disaster, the front cover of Vol. 31, No. 16 was left almost entirely blank white with only the words above printed in black ink.

 **Infantry and T-62 tanks of the SOVIET RED ARMY** prepare to relieve the ongoing siege of Chelyabinsk, out in the Urals Region of the USSR. This picture is believed to have been taken on 10/12/84 and was acquired along with many others by our reporters from a source within the Soviet Union at great effort and expense. Now, for the first time, Western readers will be able to get a rare glimpse into the grim realities of the situation on the ground in the Soviet Union, outside of the official propaganda reels permitted by the Ministry. Not surprisingly, they tell a story not much different from what is happening elsewhere.

 **Main Street, downtown PINE VALLEY, CALIFORNIA** lies almost completely empty and abandoned a week after the initial invasion.

 **Above: Oct. 14 / 15 (?), 1984: following the FALL OF TEHRAN** , Iranian forces (incl. child conscripts) mass for a counter-attack in a desperate attempt to relieve / retake the besieged capital of the Islamic Republic. Although prominent high-ranking government officials and clerics such as the Ayatollah have been evacuated, much of the city's six million inhabitants remain trapped and unable to leave. Meanwhile, simultaneous attacks on Baghdad, Republic Of Iraq have led to somewhat of an unofficial ceasefire in hostilities.

 **The wreckage of _Clipper Madeira_ , a Pan Am Boeing 707-320C jetliner from New York-JFK to Honolulu** (via Los Angeles), lies sprawled out after being shot-down mid-flight. Roughly two-thirds of the 147 people on board managed to make it out alive, but the rest perished in the impact and subsequent fire. Current estimates by the FAA believe that approximately 500 non-military aircraft were destroyed by the invading forces on 10/11/84 alone (actual figures may be higher, due to reluctance on the part of the Soviet Ministry Of Civil Aviation and Civil Aviation Authority Of China to disclose accurate figures of their own civilian airliners airborne at this time). Of these, the vast majority (about 400) were actually destroyed while on the ground, with only about 100 aircraft actually being destroyed in-flight. Major airports such as London-Gatwick were targeted, although it is unclear at this time if this was due to being mistaken for military installations, or whether they were deliberately targeted as terror attacks against the civilian populace.

 **U.S. President RONALD REAGAN addressed the nation** **at 1400hr EST on 10/11/84** (just two hours after the invasion began) with a televised speech that may just be the most important one he has ever given thus far in his entire presidency. Commentators immediately hailed "Enduring Question" as a modern classic of American rhetoric, and quite possibly the one that future generations may regard as The Great Communicator's finest and most iconic.

* * *

 **Full transcript of the "Enduring Question" Speech:**

 _"My fellow Americans:_

 _"Today, we have learned the answer to one of the most enduring questions of all time - are we alone in the universe? - but not in the way any of us could have imagined nor hoped for._

 _"Today, our fellow citizens, our way of life, our very freedom has come under attack in a series of atrocious and despicable acts of war. The victims are men, women, and children all across our nation, and throughout the world: children in school or parents at work; teachers, doctors, businessmen, priests; moms and dads, friends and neighbors, the young and elderly alike. Thousands of lives were suddenly ended by simultaneous landings performed at various locations around the world - the first stages of a planetwide invasion. Horrors we once thought possible only in the realm of Hollywood now manifested in reality._

 _"By now, all of you will have seen the pictures coming out of California, Texas, Florida, Virginia, South Dakota... even of our allies, of London, Tokyo, Hong Kong, Manila, Jerusalem... everywhere, images of death and despair, of monstrous alien creatures in highly advanced armor and powerful weapons, and yet slaughtering indiscriminately, more like savage barbarians rather than the heralds of an enlightened civilization. These images have filled us with disbelief, terrible sadness, and a quiet, unyielding anger. There isn't one of us here who isn't in some way connected to someone impacted today._

 _"We cannot tell at this moment just who are these invaders - where do they come from? Why are they attacking us? What do they want? Is it resources they seek? Territory? Slaves? Human sacrifices to feed whatever unholy god they believe in? Could there be more of them coming as we speak? Could we even now be paying witness to the Book Of Revelation come true? Perhaps, but it is difficult to say at this time._

 _"What we do know is the following: these alien invaders are Human-like creatures who look like us, but speak a different language, and boast fearsome weapons and blazing war machines far ahead of anything that exists on this Earth. Even the mighty bear of the Soviets and their Warsaw Pact allies are struggling to fight these monsters at this moment in time. But they can be defeated - not easily, but we now know from our brave men on the frontline that they can bleed. And if they can bleed, they can be killed._

 _"To this end, I have implemented our government's emergency response plans. As Commander-in-Chief of the Army, Navy, Air Force, Marine Corps, and Coast Guard, I have directed that all measures necessary be taken for our common defense. Our first priority will be to contain the threat as best we can to those areas already afflicted. To stop this menace in its tracks before it can continue spreading its senseless violence and mass murder elsewhere. At the same time, we will coordinate with our allies on a joint strategy on how to not only combat these enemies, but also establish early warnings and other preparations so that never again will we be taken by surprise. Our next priority will be to rescue those still trapped in the war-zones - to get help to those who have been injured, to reunite divided families, and to ensure that the dead are properly identified and mourned. Gradually, we will retake and restore order to those stricken areas, and in the process teach these foes a lesson they will never forget._

 _"I appreciate so very much the members of Congress who have joined me in strongly condemning these attacks. And on behalf of the American people, I thank our allies and respond in kind by extending a hand to all those who will stand with us in the defense of this planet we share and call home. Always will we remember the character of the onslaught now facing us. No matter how long it may take, no matter the cost in blood, sweat, and tears, the people of America and of every other free nation on this Earth, in their righteous might, will win through to absolute victory._

 _"I believe I interpret the will of Congress and of the people when I assert that we will not only defend ourselves to the uttermost, but will make very certain that this new breed of enemy shall never endanger us again. I ask that the Congress declare that from this day, Thursday, October 11th, onwards, a state of war shall exist between the United States, and the forces of this as-yet unknown alien power. We cannot make whole all those touched by this unprecedented disaster, but we will fight for justice for those lost, and peace for those who remain standing._

 _"Tonight, I ask for your prayers for all those we have lost, for those who continue to grieve, for the children whose worlds have been shattered. And I pray they will be comforted by a power greater than any of us - now, and in the grueling days and months ahead of us._

 _"Today, we answered one of the most enduring questions ever dared asked: are we alone in the universe? Today, and every day onwards, we shall answer that question with two more enduring questions of our own: an enemy may shatter with ease the steel of our buildings and cities, but can they ever shatter the steel of American resolve? And, with confidence in our armed forces, and with the unbounded faith and determination of our people - will we gain the inevitable triumph? No, they cannot, and yes, we can._

 _"God bless you, and God bless the United States Of America."_

* * *

 **Dutch Prime Minister RUUD LUBBERS** reads the formal declaration of war at the Binnenhof. Although the Netherlands were not directly hit on 10/11, nonetheless, NATO Article 5 has been invoked. In addition, numerous Dutch nationals overseas have been affected by the war, including but not limited to 70 Dutch passengers aboard Korean Airlines Flight 419, an A300-B4 en route from Seoul to Amsterdam, and 80 passengers on KLM Flight 512, a Boeing 737-100 on final approach from Amsterdam to London when the Battle Of London began. The 13th Light Brigade of the Royal Netherlands Army will be deploying to England right away, while the 43rd Mechanized Brigade is being deployed into West Germany - although hostilities on the European mainland seem concentrated in the Eastern Bloc at the moment, there is danger of a spill over of the conflict across the Iron Curtain.

 **YUGOSLAV PEOPLE'S ARMY troops are amassing and preparing defensive positions along the border with Albania**. President Veselin Duranovic has issued a statement that the build-up is intended to ensure the safety of the Yugoslav SFR and, if asked, have offered assistance, although Albanian authorities remain reluctant to ask as such. Meanwhile, no news yet on the current whereabouts of Enver Hoxha, who has gone MIA during the invasion of Tirana. Fighting continues throughout the Albanian capital and the surrounding countryside, though it is unclear whether their President is indeed KIA, or simply in hiding.

 **The SANTA MONICA BEACHFRONT lies almost completely deserted by 10/13/84**. Smoke almost completely obscures the view of Century City, downtown Los Angeles, and the San Gabriel Mountains.

 **Lines begin forming at gas stations around the country** , even well before President Reagan announced the institution of price controls on gasoline. The attacks on Dallas and several petroleum-exporting nations in the Middle East has sent shockwaves surging through the global energy industry. Fears over imminent fuel shortages saw vehicle owners rush to their nearest gas station to stock up within hours of the event. At some stations, car-owners could be seen filling up jerrycans and steel drums in addition to their cars, perhaps hoping to stock up or else resell the fuel later on at inflated prices.

 **Beleaguered residents of CANARY WHARF, LONDON, United Kingdom** are evacuated as NATO forces move in to secure the area after two days of fighting. Photo taken 10/13/84.

 **10/13/84: LENINGRAD NUCLEAR POWER PLANT** : it is now being reported that all four RBMK-1000 reactors have been shut down in response to the ongoing urban warfare unfolding in Leningrad, cutting off power to millions (even in unaffected areas) in the process. However, diesel, coal, and hydroelectric power stations throughout the region remain in operation, albeit with heightened security. The Soviet Nuclear Ministry could not be reached for comment. Our sources indicate that the Red Army is now taking steps to equip all of the USSR's major public utilities with SAM and GGM emplacements.

 **Chaos reigns supreme in the streets of MANILA, PHILIPPINES**. President Ferdinand Marcos has declared a national state of emergency and a curfew in effect. Marcos' hold on power is already in a precarious position ever since popular demonstrations against the regime began last year following the highly public assassination of rival Benigno Ninoy Aquino.

 **Residents evacuating BOWLING GREEN, VIRGINIA are surprised as a burning Amtrak runaway train comes hurtling past** , all its coaches alight, on the night of 10/11 to 10/12. The train would eventually come to a stop several miles later... when it derailed after hitting a curve in the track at high speed, just outside of Fredericksburg, Virginia. (For whatever reason, the deadman's switch on the locomotive failed to engage when the driver was presumably killed - although this may be explained by the fact that disabling the deadman's switch is, unfortunately, a common, if illegal and dangerous, practice among long-haul train crews here in the United States and in Canada).

 **10/11/84: Former Vice-President and Current Democratic Party Presidential Candidate WALTER MONDALE addresses a press conference with an important announcement**. By the evening of 10/11, Mondale and his running mate, Ms. Geraldine Ferrero, announced that they would be suspending their campaign, _de facto_ conceding victory to President Reagan and Vice-President Bush. Mr. Mondale stressed "the need for national unity" as the primary motivation for his decision, and urged all Americans to set aside their differences and stand together in this time of global crisis.

* * *

 **Excerpt from the 10/13/84 PBS broadcast of** ** _The McLaughlin Group_** **:**

 **Sandra Coburn (S.C.):** _"I've got to applaud the Former Vice President for his remarks and the grace he showed when making them. But, that said, though, I think that his decision to drop out was motivated more by... uh, other considerations, than just any sentiments about 'national unity' and what not."_

 **Charles McLaughlin (C.M.):** _"Care to elaborate?"_

 **S.C.:** _"Well, remember that we're still a month away from Election Day and already all the major polls are in Reagan's favor, even before the invasion began. Add onto that the universal acclaim Mr. President has been getting for his 'Enduring Question' Speech and... well, it was almost certain that he was gonna win. And that's assuming... of course, that the elections go ahead at all, that they're not canceled or postponed."_

 **Pat Buchanan (P.B.):** _"Canceling the election? Canceling the election? I think you're doing yourself a disservice underestimating the strength and resolve of the Republic!"_

 **S.C.:** _"Uh, what? I never said that!"_

 **P.B.:** _"Look back at the history of the Republic, and one thing you'll see is that at no point has a major war or crisis ever stopped an election from moving forward - 1812, the Civil War, WW2, you name it. I don't think this war is gonna be any different, especially if they're able to bring this all under control soon enough."_

 **S.C.:** _"Well, regardless, if that happens, then extra points to Mr. Reagan for successfully handling this crisis. But, even if that doesn't happen, even suppose that it's Christmas and we're still fighting, well, remember that every President in American history who has ever started a war has gotten re-elected. Look, in times of war, two things happen: people automatically gravitate towards 'strongman' leaders, and at the same time they want some sense of continuity in their government - you vote in a new president, new prime minister, new party, new cabinet, what have you... that's not good for stability."_

 **C.M.:** _"So you're saying this invasion... uh, allows them to save face."_

 **S.C.:** _"Exactly. Better to drop out of a race, you know, for 'honorable reasons', then to march forwards towards an inevitable and embarrassing defeat. Politics is a strange game, and sometimes the only winning move is just not to play at all."_

 **P.B.:** _"Sorry, but I don't see what the Dems are gaining from dropping out of the Presidential Race. It makes them look worse, in my opinion, like they don't got any spine, that this whole situation is completely over their heads."_

 **C.M.** _"No, she has a point. By dropping out of the presidential race, they'll probably free up more of their resources to divert towards the Congressional and statewide races. From what we know, those will still be moving forward, at least in the states not directly affected."_

* * *

 **10/11/84: Vice President GEORGE BUSH returns to Washington, D.C.** within an hour of the first landing, pictured here in the briefing room aboard _Air Force Two_. According to our sources, during the flight, Mr. Bush met with Mrs. Geraldine Ferrero, Democratic Party candidate for Vice President (who was scheduled to debate Mr. Bush last night). We believe that this picture was taken when the Vice President may have been negotiating the terms for Mr. Mondale's dropout from the presidential race.

 _ ***EDIT*** : in an earlier edition of this paper, we had stated that the Vice-President was meeting with Mrs. Geraldine Ferrero. It has now come to our attention from our other sources that Mrs. Ferrero remained in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania this entire time. The identity of the other individual meeting with Mr. Bush when the photograph above was taken remains unknown at this time._

 **10/13/84: INDIAN ARMY troops of the Jammu & Kashmir Light Infantry Regiment** pose for a motivational photograph as they deploy in Uri, Jammu & Kashmir. Based on eyewitness accounts and declassified reports, we suspect that this landing occurred somewhere within the vicinity of the town of Uri right on the 1972 Line Of Control. Intense fighting has been reported occurring on both sides of the border, which has some observers concerned of a possible spillover of the fighting into each other's territory. Our analysts believe that Pakistan may already possess nuclear capability although whether they possess an actual working warhead at this time is unknown. But with fighting occurring within only 50 miles of Islamabad, there is concern that Pakistan might feel under additional pressure.

 **10/19/84: Pictured, the aftermath of a riot in LUDHIANA, PUNJAB**. As Indian Army and Border Security Forces are diverted to the frontlines, areas with large Sikh populations have seen major uprisings over the last few days, many in protest of Prime Minister Gandhi's controversial military operation to storm the sacred Golden Temple earlier this year. This week, Babbar Khalsa, a notorious Khalistani militant organization, released a video calling upon Sikhs everywhere to lend their support to the alien invaders, proclaiming them to be messengers from God.

 **10/11/84: pictured, a trader seated at his desk, holding his head in shock**. Within the first hour of the invasion, stock markets around the globe experienced a crash of historic proportions, even greater than the infamous 1929 crash that is popularly credited with starting the Great Depression. For security reasons, the trading floor of the NYSE was closed by 1pm EST, but by the end of the day, the damage had been done, with Dow Jones reporting that the Industrial Average having fallen by over 42%.

 **10/11/84: pictured, a pair of MERKAVA MAIN BATTLE TANKS** of the Israeli Defense Force 162nd Armored Division, supported by infantry, rumble through the streets of Jerusalem.

* * *

 **Excerpts from the eyewitness testimony of Corporal ADINA MENZEL, Israeli Defense Force 933rd "Nahal" Infantry Brigade:**

 _"I remember seeing the fiery streak made when the first 'comet' landed; it was so bright that I could see it even from our balcony (Istvan and I lived together in Sanhedriya, just north of downtown). At first I thought it was another Arab rocket attack or something, and no sooner had it landed when I could already hear gunfire and explosions erupting from south of us. I immediately rushed back into our apartment and found Istvan there, the TV had cut out and instead there was just a blue screen and an announcement that some kind of attack was going on. My husband and I both served in the Nahal - that's where we met - and we remained with the reserve. So he brought out the radio tuned into our unit's special frequency, and we could hear the order was being made by the Colonel for all reservists to report to Ammunition Hill at once._

 _"We arrived at the rally point maybe 20 minutes later, all kitted out in our gear and everything. It was past seven in the evening and getting dark, but the entire area was lit up with floodlights. We saw many of our neighbors and others we had served with already there. There was also several M113's that were being loaded up. Not long after we arrived, I saw four Merkava tanks come rumbling down the street, right past us. In addition to the men riding inside them, I also saw some of the men riding desant on the back of the tanks. I was so very confused. This was an awfully large show of force for what we thought until then was just another terrorist attack, or maybe another riot by the Arabs living in the eastern part of town._

 _"We were given orders as follows: several units, including my husband's, would lead the charge, aimed at putting this enemy down for good. The rest, including my unit and the other all-female squads, formed a reserve who would follow some ways behind the main push. Our job would be to provide support to the first line, and also to engage in search-and-rescue ops for wounded civilians. We were all still confused about what was going on; I didn't think it could be a simple riot because we had tanks and everything, but I also didn't think it could be another coordinated surprise attack, like ten years ago, because we would have known about it long before. Something was definitely wrong._

 _"At 740pm, not more than 40 minutes after the first comet hit, we were off. My husband and his unit were part of the first wave. We followed behind by, maybe fifty, maybe sixty meters. As we approached downtown, the Temple Mount on the right, we could hear the shouting and gunfire getting ever louder and louder - the sounds of the enemy and of police and reservist units in those neighborhoods already engaged. I could hear new orders coming over the radio all the time. They were being overwhelmed, shouting about superhuman giants in black armor, that looked like knights or robots, armed with what appeared to be handheld autocannons and even... swords. Yes, swords. One guy even claimed it was, like, wrathful mal'akh or something. I couldn't believe it, I thought that maybe they must have been delusional or something. Oh, how wrong I was._

 _"Then, new orders came. It seemed that our initial push to put down the enemy was failing. Our new instructions were merely to herd them away from the downtown and out eastwards - it's mainly Arab territory out there, so we didn't think much of it at the time. The enemy, logically, would try to follow the path of least resistance, and so we would dig in and hold our ground. With these new orders received, we began hunkering down and taking up defensive positions. I took point in a storefront, along with two of my squadies, Sarah and Miryam. Across the street, I saw a heavy weapons team digging inside a cafe front; they were setting up an M47 Dragon._

 _"That's when the radio again alerted us that the situation had changed yet again: it seems these enemies did not "follow the path of least resistance" as we had expected, and instead were deliberately charging right towards where the fighting was heaviest. This whole time, I was thinking about Istvan and his unit; they were somewhere ahead of us, but I wasn't in direct contact with them. But I could tell from the sounds of gunfire that they were probably already engaged._

 _"I could see the Merkava ahead of us (Number 63 - yes, I will always remember that for the rest of my life). When we were in training, we were taught that a well-trained crew could probably manage about 4 or 5 rounds per minute under most battlefield situations, but this one must have been giving it their all, because they were frantically pumping out one shot every few seconds. The soldiers who had been riding desant had already jumped off and I could see them firing at something. There was a boom-boom-boom, like an autocannon firing, and every place it hit, there was an explosion like a high-explosive grenade. Two of the poor guys were hit and seemed to explode into chunks of flesh and tattered uniforms - thankfully, I couldn't see too clearly the details from the distance behind them I was stationed. Another man was caught by debris where one of the explosive rounds had hit the wall near him; he lay on the road, slowly bleeding out._

 _"The Merkava continued firing away, and it began reversing too, backing up the street, towards us. It ran right over the man on the street; he cried out and there was a sickening crunch as the treads ran over him. Oh God, that sound. Still, the tank kept rolling, firing away, like the crew was focused entirely on whatever it was in front of them. That's when I saw the first of the attackers emerging from the cloud of smoke and dust._

 _"I'd heard everything that was being said about them over the radio, but I still couldn't believe it until I saw them with my own eyes. Yes, they were dressed up almost like knights for something, which made me wonder for a split second if this was like the Crusades that we were taught about in school. Their eyes were glowing red. The lead one was armed with... with a glowing sword in his right hand and some big blocky gun in his left (that must have been the autocannon I had heard). And he moved nimbly on two feet and he was so fast - like an Olympic runner. There were four others like him following close behind._

 _"The tank was still firing madly. The leader was very fast and agile; it was like he could see where the gun was pointing and react before it could fire, because not one shot hit him. One did hit one of the other ones with him, knocking him out (no, I didn't see if it killed him or not, I was too focused on the leader). I wanted to give the order for my unit to open fire, but I knew we might hit our own men up there._

 _"The leader charged right up to the tank - the other soldiers there were shooting at him, but the bullets just glanced off the armor. Grenades detonated around him - even that didn't stop him. And he ran right up to the tank, climbed on top of it - he was so heavy, at least maybe a ton, that the whole tank shook. And he leapt down behind it, turned, and rammed his sword into the rear. It was insane. The rear of the tank was hissing and steaming, and the area around where the blade had gone in was glowing red hot and melting. There were sparks shooting everywhere, like lightning. Though he must not have known that the engine in a Merkava is at the front, not the rear, because the crew, God bless them, was still alive long enough to back up one more time. The tank accelerated right into him, knocking him back a couple steps. This attacker, whoever he was, held up his other hand to stop the tank and grabbed onto the rear trackguard, and dug his feet into the ground, digging up asphalt and everything._

 _"But it was long enough that the heavy weapons team just across the street from us were able to get a clear line-of-sight, and they fired. The anti-tank rocket flew and hit the leader right in the head and I didn't see what happened after that, as there was an explosion and a cloud of smoke and dust that covered everything. There was another explosion seconds later, which must have been the ammunition on the tank detonating. I... I honestly don't know how I ever got out of there alive, it was like hell."_


	15. The Touch

_**Writer's Note:** today, we celebrate a milestone. This story has reached 84 reviews. Thanks to all the readers who have expressed their support, and also thank you to MrTerrorist for working on this story's TVTropes page; today's chapter features something that he has been asking for. To all other readers, don't worry, this is just a * **joke chapter* / omake** that's **not** really part of this story's canon, although it does introduce a character I know that we are all very eager to see appear in the actual story soon enough. _

* * *

**Chapter 84:  
YOU GOT THE TOUCH  
**

The man stumbled through the dark alleyway, still clutching his head. Something was very wrong. He had just a felt a great disturbance in the Warp. It was the sensation that one who had lived as long as he only ever felt a few times in their entire lives. He shuddered. No, it could not be. But... if it was, there was only one person he knew he could turn to now.

The man looked around him. The great, grey steel and glass towers of the city loomed above him, casting their shadow upon him and turning the winding streets and alleyways into midnight, even though the sun was only just setting. There were other people out and about, though they largely kept to themselves, minding their own business. The man, with his beard and aged robes and deceptively austere-appearing walking stick, would appear in their eyes as little more than a beggar, a mere "hobo" to use their language. But, as always, looks can be deceiving.

At the end of the alleyway was a doorway; it was guarded by an imposing muscular dark-skinned man, resembling no less than a gladiator or one of the heroes of old. He towered over the old sage, clad in dark glasses and lengths of gold chain around his neck. There were some dozen other people lining up before him. But imposing and stalwart as the guard may have seemed, he still stood back and bowed his head slightly as the old sage strode right past him and in through the doorway. He didn't even need to wave his hand or anything; hardly any effort was involved for a psyker of his level to manipulate those of a weaker mindset.

"Hey!" shouted one of the other men, the one standing at the head of the line, "that bum just cut in line!"

"Talk to the hand, foo!" grunted the bouncer, practically shoving his palm into the guy's face.

Though no sooner had the old man pushed his way through the doors when at once his eyes and ears were assaulted by a veritable orgy of garish colors, flashing light, and deep thumping beats.

The central atrium was a roughly circular chamber, spanning two storeys in height. The center of the room was dominated by a circular stage, where, at that moment, three young and rather nubile women were dancing in sync and flapping their mouths along with the lyrics, spewing whatever verbiage passed in this century for "music". The old sage cringed, regretting very much the fact that he actually recognized this so-called "song" as he had heard it played numerous times before - it was supposedly entitled " **Passion** " by a performing troupe who called themselves " **The Flirts** ", though in fact the songstresses were merely window-dressing; the actual song had been written and performed by someone else, and they were merely mouthing along the words to it. Not that the patrons of this establishment seemed to care much, mind you, as long as there was a fast and constant beat to shake their bodies to.

On the walls, red and yellow strobes flashed, while streams of pink and blue light crisscrossed the air, back and forth across the room. In spite of the best efforts of the ventilation, it still stank: that mix of body odor, sweat, smoke, spilled drinks, and other, ahem, _lovely_ aromas that arise from packing dozens of living bodies into one enclosed space. And there were a lot of them, men and women all in their twenties up to their fifties, dressed in all assortments of clothing, makeup, and jewelry. The old man had lived through the centuries, had witnessed firsthand for himself orgies held at the Vatican, or the expansive feasts held in the gardens of Versailles while the smallfolk just outside didn't even have bread. And it was displays of decadence and debauchery as these that troubled him, for they were more often than not symptomatic of some underlying weakness in the character of the people, and a prelude to great turmoil, chaos, and mass death and devastation.

Or perhaps it was just young mortals making the most of their short lives, just having a good time, and he was overthinking things.

The walls of the room were lined with tables and booths, a crowded bar that dominated one wall, and several curtained-off arches that led to the smaller VIP-only rooms. It was one of these where he knew right away he would find whom he was looking for, and made his way towards it.

The old man pushed open the curtain, and was greeted by a bizarre sight. There were four beings in the room, a man and three women - or at least, that was how they might initially have appeared to the casual observer. But the old man knew better: the three women were not Human at all, but something far more ancient and powerful - visitors (well, more like _castaways_ , the last survivors of a shipwreck) to this world from another beyond the stars. Of course, their long, pointed ears were a dead giveaway to any passerby, though for the most part, with the right choice of wardrobe and hairstyle (and a little _glamour_ too), they could pass for Human.

The younger man (or at least, that was how he appeared to the uninitiated) looked to be of about five-and-twenty years of age; his jet black hair was combed smooth and shiny, and ran in a mullet back down to his shoulders, and a wide jet black mustache covered his upper lip. He was dressed in a shining golden-colored suit jacket and pants, on top of a deep crimson t-shirt; said shirt was embossed with the sigil of a double-headed eagle, its wings outstretched, made up of iridescent glitter. And his shoes were garish silver-colored sneakers with neon-blue velcro straps that glowed fiercely in the ultraviolet light. He just went by his nickname, Karl.

And right now, Karl was sitting on the couch but leaning forward, flanked by two of the Eldar women. The third one, the Farseer, was lying on her front on the table, topless, a fat line of coke drawn out across the smooth skin of the small of her back.

"WOOOH!" remarked Karl, looking up from the Farseer's back, a bit of powder still clinging to his mustache. He sniffed hard, and coughed. He looked up at the newcomer in the room. "MALC!" he shouted, excitedly, "c'mon on in, brother! We got plenty to go around."

Malcador shook his head. "Well? Did you feel _it_?"

"Feel what?"

"Surely you must have!" implored the Sigilite, "for a moment, the lines between our world and the Immaterium were blurred. I felt it. Twenty, thirty, nay, maybe a _hundred_ , portals opening up like eyes into the Warp, the screaming and swirling of dark energies. And for a second, I swore I felt the presence of a... a _fourth one_."

"Oh, so that's what that was!" muttered Karl, sitting back into the couch. "Shit, for a while there, I just thought it was a really bad trip. Man, let me tell you, I hadn't tripped that bad since disco died!"

Malcador shook his head, remembering well the incident a few years back to which Karl was referring. Truth be told, the psychic shockwaves from _that_ particular episode, that were felt around the world, was probably the reason _why_ disco died in the first place (and good riddance too, if Malcador was being honest with himself). But that was then; there were more pressing matters at hand. "If you're done, my liege, we have an important quest ahead of us," advised the sage.

"Easy old man, I hear ya," smiled Karl, getting to his feet, "let's go KICK SOME ASS!"

"Old man?" grumbled Malcador, "you know I am _younger_ than you are."

A minute later, Karl and Malcador emerged from out of the club and back out into the alleyway. This time, though, Malcador saw the garage doors on the opposite wall slowly opening themselves, revealing... Karl's choice of personal transportation, a sleek white-colored carriage of the type the people of this age referred to as the legendary and much-vaunted " _Lamborghini Countach_ ". At his command, the vehicle's headlights kicked on, and the car slowly lumbered out of the garage by itself, the engine rumbling. The doors slid open of their own accord, and the two men climbed inside.

"Good evening, my lord," uttered a voice, emanating from a flashing red light on the dashboard. It was the vehicle's machine spirit, addressing its master in a polite, if somewhat flat, British accent.

"We've got another mission, buddy," smirked Karl as he settled into his seat and pulled on his seatbelt. "You know the drill."

"Yes, my lord," replied the machine spirit. At once, the car's surround-sound stereo system kicked on, with a tune that seemed almost pre-selected by Karl for this type of occasion.

"You got _**THE TOUCH!**_ " began the song, "you got the **_POWAAAAAHHH_**... _**YEAH!**_ "

"Is this..." began Malcador, putting on his own seatbelt, and frowned. "Wait a minute. This particular song is not even supposed to be released for another two years!"

"I know," grinned Karl, putting on his aviator shades, "don't care."

And with that, he took the wheel and floored the pedal. A great roar filled the air as the engine came to life, and the car zoomed off, out of the alleyway and out onto the streets, and off into the setting sun.

 ***[Cue KICKASS THEME SONG and CHEESY ACTION MONTAGE as the title credits roll.]***


	16. Don't You Forget About Me

_**To all readers:** I wanted to do something a little different today. Before we begin with the main chapter, we will first have a OPENING TITLE SEQUENCE for Crimson Dawn. Just imagine, if you will, that this story was an animated TV show produced in the 1980's, that each chapter was a separate episode...  
_

* * *

 **OPENING TITLES**

 **Exterior: OUTER SPACE.**

The title sequences opens with a starry background (with some VHS-quality effects added, such as deliberate graininess and static). That's when the opening title song kicks in: _MAJOR TOM (COMING HOME)_ by PETER SCHILLING (1983). The first title card appears:

 ** _From the writer that brought you EVENT HORIZON: STORM OF MAGIC comes..._**

The words on the screen explode into a fireball as several Imperial ships come into view: an assortment of various Valkyries, Space Marine drop-pods, and then a Space Marine Battle Barge rumbling onto the screen, adorned in the sigil and heraldry of the Crimson Fists chapter. These ships and vehicles (as well as the entire show) are all animated using traditional hand-drawn animation rather than computer graphics. The main titles crawl onto screen on the underside of the ship.

 ** _CRIMSON DAWN:  
_**

 ** _The Imperium Arrives In 1984_**

 **Interior: SPACE MARINE BATTLE BARGE.**

Inside the command bridge, a Space Marine Brother Captain stands in front of a large holographic interface, monitoring the battle above Terra Nova. His helmet is off, so that the viewers can see his face and his stern look. Various little symbols and glyphs moving around the screen indicate the various Imperial forces encircling the planet (mixed among them are some little Easter Eggs that viewers can spot if they hit the pause button - like the words "Kilroy was here").

Several shots interspersed within show the various Imperial troops getting ready for battle, including one shot that is as follows: a Valkyrie rushes at the camera; the camera appears to enter the Valk through the cockpit glass, focus on the pilot's determined face, then zoom past the pilot, and then show all the Imperial Guardsmen, strapped into their seats, looking alert and loading their lasguns. The Commissar is waving his sword in the air. (Again, hit the pause button on your remote control and you'll see more Easter Eggs, like one of the Guardsmen having "Ultimate Badass" scrawled on his chestplate).

The montage cuts back to the Battle Barge and zooms in on the SM Captain from behind. The Captain turns to face the camera. A Brother Sergeant is approaching him; he stops and nods, indicating that they're ready to go. The Captain doesn't say anything, but instead reaches for his helmet and puts it on. There is a hiss of steam as the helmet clamps down onto his armor, forming an airtight seal. The eyeholes on the helmet light up, shining red.

Throughout all of the above, the first verse of the song (so about from the start to about 30 seconds in).

 **Exterior: BATTLE BARGE.**

The camera starts out zoomed in on the open hangar cavities of the Battle Barge, but then zooms back out as several Thunderhawks come thundering out of the space, almost as if following them.

 **Interior: THE LABYRINTH OF TZEENTCH.**

However, just then, the shot of the Thunderhawks grows hazy and misty and shrouded in blue flames. The camera zooms out even more to reveal that the last shot was actually a vision being watched by someone. Who is that someone? At that moment, the camera pans around to show... a hooded figure sitting on a throne, inside what looks like some kind of throne room at the center of an immense LABYRINTH that spans ENTIRE DIMENSIONS. The walls of this "room" as well as the throne all appear to be made up of all manner of bizarre twisting fractal shapes that seem to be moving (and pretty much pushes the limit of what you can do with hand-drawn animation).

The figure on the throne is wearing some strange hooded cloak, except that if you look closer, you can see that the cloak seems to be made out of _space itself_ , as you can see moving planets and stars and comets adorning the cloak (again, pushing the limits of hand-drawn animation). The face of the hood is entirely black and shrouded in darkness, expect for two GLOWING BLUE EYES. The only visible body parts of the hooded figure are its two hands (if you could call them that) protruding from its sleeves, clutching onto the armrests of his throne. One hand seems to be like the claws on a bird's foot except shiny; the other hand seems to have octopus tentacles for fingers.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is the realm of the CHANGER OF WAYS, and here, at the center of his Labyrinth, is where he sits and spends aeons beyond count or comprehension to any mortal, spinning endless and mind-numbingly intricate and complicated plots and toying with the fates of infinite worlds. Just as planned!

The hood pulls back slightly to reveal a brass-colored toothy beak emerge from within; the beak is twisted into an evil smile. The Changer Of Ways is up to something.

 **Exterior: OUTER SPACE.**

Cutting back to the Imperial fleet, suddenly, there is a flash of lightning, and a gigantic blue and pink colored cloud in the shape of an eye opens up right in front of one of the landing ships, like a tear opening up in the fabric of spacetime.

 **Exterior: THE WARP.**

The camera zooms forward through the Warp (kind of like the Hyperspace shots in _Star Wars_ , but much trippier, with pink-and-blue swirls and spirals and fractal patterns instead of clean, straight starlines). And then, the camera seems to exit the Warp, and Planet Earth comes into view.

The camera continues zooming in rapidly onto Earth (California, to be precise), all the way down onto ground level in a couple seconds. (By the way, everything described up to now would occur within only a minute, as what comes next would be timed to coincide with the part of the song where Peter Schilling sings the main chorus for the first time).

 **Exterior: SANTA MONICA BEACH.**

No sooner does the camera appear to impact the ground when the sequence rapidly cuts to reaction shots of the people standing around it. All of them have shocked or surprised looks on their faces.

At that moment, the drop-pod opens up! A hulking Space Marine is the first to emerge, swinging a huge chainsword. Everyone around him panics and turns to run, but the Astartes is already upon them. Before we see him filet his first victim, the scene cuts to another shot...

 **Exterior: DRESDEN, EAST GERMANY.**

Another drop-pod just like it, embedded in the asphalt in the middle of a city, also with more Astartes coming charging out. In the foreground, a panicked police officer (in _Volkspolizei_ uniform) is cowering behind a cafe counter, calling for help into his walkie talkie.

 **Montage:**

Montage of several wide-angle shots from around the world, including (but not limited to) the following: establishing shot of Los Angeles with plumes of smoke and several wrecked skyscrapers visible. Moscow at night, St. Basil's Cathedral brightly illuminated with floodlights, but fires burning in several places, as well as visible tracer fire shooting up into the nighttime sky. Ditto for London, Tokyo, Rio de Janeiro, Dallas, Tehran...

Cut to montage of various news broadcasts, various shots of news anchors sitting at their desks, looking and speaking solemnly at the camera, or else shots of chaos around the world (riots, stampedes of panicked civilians, armored vehicles rumbling down the road in single file, a fighter jet falling down from the sky and impacting the ground, exploding into a fireball), accompanied by a news ticker along the bottom with scrawling text reciting the headlines. Here, we might see a clip of _CBS Evening News_ hosted by Dan Rather; elsewhere, we might see a shot of _Vremya_ hosted by Vera Shebeko.

The soundtrack continues (although it's cut out the second verse of the song, and the bridge, and jumped straight to the final verse).

The montage continues, with many different shots, maybe including (but not limited to) the following:

(1) Wide shot of the interior of the UN General Assembly as various world leaders are (presumably) discussing what to do.

(2) A shot of a Minuteman-3 intercontinental ballistic missile sitting in its silo; the steam and smoke rising from it seem to indicate that the missile is preparing for ignition.

(3) A line of soldiers (probably Soviet, based on their uniforms) are trying to hold a barricade; they are firing away at something offscreen. A second later, a T-72 tank rumbles into the frame, right behind the infantryman, and fires at an unseen target.

(4) An F-14 Tomcat performs a barrel roll to try to dodge a bright laser beam.

(5) Somewhere in an arid mountain region, a group of men comes charging at something, firing their assault rifles. These could be _Mujahaideen_ , or they could also be the Kurdish _Peshmerga_.

(6) One of the main turrets on the _USS Iowa_ slowly rotates into position; it stops when the barrel of the gun is facing right into the camera, dominated the frame.

(7) Amid all the carnage and destruction, there are two or three shots that are more hopeful and optimistic. In one of these, we see a group of Salamander Marines standing in what looks to be somewhere in Africa, standing before a crowd of thousands of Ethiopian and/or Sudanese civilians. One of the Ethiopians walks up the Salamander captain, prostrates and makes the sign of the Aquila. The Salamander Captain returns the gesture and bows in return.

(8) Somewhere in the desert (probably Australia), we see a line of ramshackle vehicles, put together from recycled car parts and junk and covered in spikes, driving across the desert sands.

Suddenly, everything CUTS TO BLACK for a moment.

And then, in the final shot, the camera is focused on an extreme closeup of a face, showing only the eyes. The eyes are closed, as if the person they belong to is asleep, but they are visibly twitching - clearly, he must be having a nightmare or something. The face clearly belong to a youngish (looking) man, with black hair; his identity is not revealed, although some viewers may correctly guess who this character is (minor spoiler: yeah, it's the God Emperor Of Mankind, so good job if you guessed that). And then, at the last moment, his eyes open widely, staring right into the camera.

 **END of title sequence.**

* * *

 _And now for the chapter proper... **  
**_

* * *

 **Chapter XVI:**  
 **DON'T YOU FORGET ABOUT ME  
**

 **Central Clinical Hospital,**  
 **Kuntsevo District, Moscow,**  
 **Russian SFSR, USSR.**

The old man was just there on his bed, sitting up and awake but staring out of his window, his gaze fixed on the terrible vista unfolding outside, as if half catatonic. Something must have broken inside him, though who could blame him? The sight of the glorious capital city of the Motherland, the bastion that had held firm and true against the might of the Third Reich, and yet now it was going up in flames before his very eyes. Air raid sirens were blaring; arcs of tracer fire were streaking across the sky; explosions were going off here and there throughout the cityscape. The old man in the bed was one of the most powerful men in the world and yet there he lay, in his hospital gown with the linen sheets pulled over him, looking weak and pathetic, a sad and disheveled wreck of a man.

Sitting by his side, attentive to his every need, Alexei Sannikov was not exactly one you would call soft, though he was one of the younger faces in the CPSU Central Committee's staff these days. But even he found something heart-breaking in watching the despair in the old man's face as outside the city burned.

"All those people... dying," wheezed the elderly man, "all those... years we have had to prepare... all those resources we have dedicated... and we could not stop this day from coming."

"Comrade-Secretary, this is not your fault," said Alexei, standing up, respectfully. "There is nothing we could have done to have foreseen this. The Americans? Sure, yes. But this is a new enemy the likes of which we have never seen before. Latest news is that even NATO is getting hit hard by them. Los Angeles, London, Tokyo, Hong Kong... all great citadels of the capitalists, all burning right at this very moment too."

"They will fight back," said the old man, "and so must we! We must show them... we must... we must..." He didn't finish his statement before breaking out in a fit of coughing.

"Comrade-Secretary, I promise you, we are mobilizing all available guard units in throughout the Moskva Region," insisted Alexei, "we will not allow the capital to fall." He was trying his best to be reassuring, but truth be told, he had no real idea what was going on, only bits and pieces of info filtering to him from all the various command units throughout the city. The attack had come so suddenly, and of a type that no-one could have foreseen.

Though Alexei was also somewhat relieved when, almost as if timed perfectly with his words, there was a thundering roar as something flew past the building, and the windows rattled. It was a jet of some kind - maybe a MiG or a Sukhoi, Alexei wasn't an aviation specialist so he couldn't tell the difference.

The door opened. Alexei turned to look. A black-coated officer entered the room, followed by two similarly-dressed guards; their insignia denoted them as members of the KGB's Ninth Directorate. First he faced the leader, and saluted. Then, he looked to Alexei. "Comrade Sannikov, outside please," he commanded, simply but firmly.

Alexei was reluctant to leave the Premier's side, so he at least first made sure that the two guards who had accompanied the officer took their positions before he left. He also took a glance at the _Cheget_ device as he stepped out, knowing full well what was inside that little and otherwise unassuming leather briefcase that sat at the foot of the Premier's bed.

"Comrade- _Polkovnik_ Borodin," said Alexei once they were outside, "what's going on?"

"Enemy units are converging on this district," replied the Colonel. "We've got to move now. We have a special train en route to our location; I want everyone aboard and ready to go the second it touches the platform. No ifs, no buts. We're leaving."

"Why are you telling me this?" protested Alexei, "he's right there, in the room. You could have told him this in person."

"Because something tells me that he won't take any of this too kindly," replied Borodin, "if this were a missile en route to Moscow, okay, yes, that you can not really do much against. But enemy troops on the ground? That's different. Stalin _never_ fled, not even when we had fascists right at our gates; I daresay our dear Comrade-Secretary here will take it as a blow to his reputation if we did just that. In which case, I know he trusts you, I'll need your help convincing him."

"I'm just an aide," muttered Alexei, "where's Comrade Grishin? Gromyko? Tikhonov? Gorbachev? All of them have more authority than I! Could we not get one of them on the phone?"

"I'm afraid that's not a viable option at this moment," said Borodin, "all Politburo members are already en route to various secure locations as we speak. Minimal contact is advised, for security reasons."

"What?!" said Alexei, "you evacuated _everyone else_ first?"

"It was a... pragmatic choice," shrugged Borodin. He strutted back towards the door of the leader's quarters. "Enough. Are you with me or not, Comrade Sannikov? Because if we don't move him now... _they_ will."

* * *

 **Coast of Orang,**  
 **North Hamgyong Province,** **DPRK.**

"I... I still can't believe..." stammered Captain Kim Yunsoo as he reentered the cockpit. First Officer Jeong Wonho and Flight Engineer Min Myungseok looked up from their stations; they had been checking over the plane's systems, while the Captain had gone out into the cabin to check up on the passengers. Captain continued: "it's... it's a miracle. No, it's not possible. There's just no way we could have landed as we did, not with the amount of damage we took."

"How are the passengers?" asked Jeong.

Kim shook his head. "We've had one fatality; an elderly man down in coach - must have been severe head trauma from the impact, but the little girl sitting next to him is unharmed for the most part. We have many others wounded, mainly concussions and broken bones; cabin crew's doing their best to attend to everyone. But then again, considering what we just went through..."

"Do you think... that... uh, that we _died_ and we're now in _heaven_?" asked Min, looking around him as if he wasn't sure if any of this was real or not.

"More like hell," said Jeong, bitterly. "I still say we should have taken our chances with a water landing rather than... _this place_."

Capt. Kim shook his head. "No. No-one's ever ditched a jumbo jet, I wouldn't want to be the first."

As much as he hated to admit that making for the nearest land had meant heading to _the North_ , he also knew that nobody had ever performed a successful water landing with a 747 before. The closest he could think of was an incident a couple years back, when a British airliner heading to Australia had run into engine problems over Indonesia, had run into a plume of volcanic ash that caused all four engines to shut down. After a harrowing 15-minute glide, the crew were preparing for a water landing, but then at the last minute managed to restart three of the engines and get the plane safely back to land.

All told, a water landing would have been an enormous gamble with the lives of _everyone_ onboard, at best, even if they had full control, and without whatever damage had been dealt to the tail. And even if they could have successfully have pulled it off and evacuated the aircraft, what then? They'd be adrift in the middle of the sea on flimsy inflatable life-rafts, spending days or possibly weeks waiting for rescue - whatever was going on over on the mainland, it was unclear whether there would be a rescue mission sent out to them in time before they all drowned or died from starvation or exposure or worse.

All things considered, heading to the nearest land and then landing as they had was the best (or rather the _least worst_ ) of all the options Captain Kim had. And at least so far, it had paid off - they had made it onto the ground in surprisingly good shape, had somehow managed to find a stretch of flat beach long enough for the plane to land, and then had done just that. It was almost like they had had a guardian angel watching over them the entire way. But now that they were on the ground, there was the next thing to worry about: namely, what exactly would happen if and when the _Bukhan_ finally found them...

Oh, speak of the Devil.

"Uh, we got company," remarked Jeong, looking outside the windshield. Captain Kim could hear it now, the thudding of helicopter rotors in the distance, and a lonely spotlight shining towards them. For several minutes, the helicopter approached them and then circled around them a few times. And then, before long, it touched down on the beach only a couple hundred feet away from them and began powering down. The searchlight, though, remained focused shining right at them. The intense glare made it impossible to see much about this visitor, but Kim knew who they were - who else could it be?

He sighed. "I'm in command here. I'll... I'll go out and speak to them."

It took a couple minutes to get down onto the ground. At Kim's orders, the flight attendants opened the L1 door and activated the inflatable emergency slide. It was a cold autumn morning, with a light breeze and the sound of the waves tossing and turning on the beach. He shivered, even with his Captain's jacket on and buttoned up, and his black leather shoes sank into the damp sand, ruining their clean polished look. But _by God_ did it feel good to be standing back on Terra Firma after everything they'd gone through in the air. After having lived through _that_ , surely Capt. Kim could survive talking to these men?

In the early morning light, he could see that six of them had disembarked from the helicopter and were now approaching him. Three of them were wearing what clearly looked to be officer uniforms, including the man in the middle, who looked to be their leader. The other three men flanking them were heavily armed soldiers, carrying Kalashnikov-type rifles.

"You!" commanded one of the officers. He was speaking Korean, albeit in a slightly different accent to what Kim was used to. "Identify yourself!"

"Captain Kim Yunsoo," he replied, putting his hands in the air to show he was unarmed, "I am in command of this... aircraft."

"Captain?" asked one of the officers, the one who looked to be their leader, "with what branch of the armed forces?"

"None," replied Kim, "I've only ever flown with Korean Airlines."

" _South_ Korean Airlines," corrected the third officer, visibly irked by Kim's statement, "or perhaps _Traitor Airlines_ , more appropriately! Mark my words, when we are reunited under the Fatherly Leader, your greedy capitalist so-called 'airline' will be returned to its rightful owners, the Korean people!"

"Enough, thank you," barked the leader, and the third officer fell silent. The leader turned back to face Kim. "How many passengers?"

Captain Kim hesitated for a minute.

"We'll find out anyway," said the leader, "you can make things easier for us, and we'll make things easier for you."

"This is Korean, uh, _KAL_ Flight Zero-Six-Niner, from Paris Charles De Gaulle to Seoul-Gimpo, with a refueling stop in Anchorage, Alaska. We have 300 passengers, 20 crewmembers, and 10 metric tons of cargo onboard."

"Thank you, Captain Kim," said the leader. He turned to address his two subordinates. "Lt. Namgung, radio back to base. Notify them as follows: doesn't look like the airframe is salvageable, but we have acquired 320 prisoners; we'll need additional transports here; medics too. And have them clear out Hanger 12 and set up some bedding there; we can accommodate all of them there until further notice." The Lt saluted and headed back towards their helicopter. The leader turned back to face Kim. "And you, Captain, come with me. I'll need you to explain _everything_ that happened. Specifically, I would like to know everything about the attack, and how were you able to recover afterwards. I've seen your tail; with damage like that, it's a miracle you were ever able to land at all."

* * *

 **Hibiscus Island,  
Miami Beach, State of Florida.**

 _"Hefe!"_ shouted Pablo from above, "we're here."

Tony looked around him as he emerged from inside the _Mar Del Plata_ 's cabin, back up onto the main deck. Everything was a mess, everywhere. Outside, to the northeast, he could see plumes of smoke rising from the carnage going on over on North Beach. To the west, there was even more smoke and gunfire coming from downtown area over on the Mainland. There were distant sounds of police sirens and shouting. Tony could also see fires burning down on Palm Island too, though it didn't look like the invaders (whoever the fuck they were) had gotten there yet; no, it looked like there was rioting and looting going on in the wake of the attacks, and since all the millionaires had probably fucked off at the first sign of trouble, their empty mansions over on Palm were now easy pickings.

Even within the seeming safety and shelter that the yacht offered, the scene inside the cabin was little better. It turns out that while they were speeding away from the beach and out to sea, several stray bullets fired by the invaders had struck the boat's hull and punched clean through. Damn, those things were like frickin' grenades exploding inside the ship! Fortunately, the yacht was still afloat and still functioning normally, as far as they could tell, and Lance and Misty were alright. But oh God, Daisy! She was alive but had gotten injured from shrapnel, had been bleeding profusely. Lance and Tony did the best they could and they'd stopped the bleeding, but she would need to see a doctor as soon as they were somewhere safe. In the mean time, Tony had to rip up his shirt and white jacket to make a tourniquet and some makeshift bandages, and was now wearing the only other shirt he could find lying around the yacht, his "Van Halen: Tour Of The World 1984" t-shirt. Yeah, he looked ridiculous, but this wasn't the time to worry over such small matters.

At that moment, the _Mar Del Plata_ was fast approaching Tony's estate on Hibiscus Island. A lone jetty extended out from behind the main house, and out into the bay. Tony could hear the marine diesels powering down, and Pablo shouting out at the men on the dock. No sooner had the yacht slowed to a halt and the gangplank dropped, when Tony was already rushing onto the dock, followed closely behind by Pablo.

"Orders, _hefe_?" asked Hector, one of the men waiting for him on the dock.

"It's a frickin' warzone out there," muttered Tony, still shaking visibly from all he'd seen, hands still bloody from tending to Daisy. "I dunno if it's frickin' Russians or aliens, but we're getting the fuck outta here."

"We're not gonna just hunker down here?" asked Sonny, Tony's other hired thug, "this place is a fortress! We got plenty o' food, we got ammo, we got the generators running..."

Tony cut him off. "I said, we're LEAVING. As in, getting outta this city. NOW." He looked at his house for a moment. "But yeah, let's get everything first. Food, money, fuel, coke... and guns. Lots and lots of guns. If this is World War 3, I want my own fuckin' army."

"Where we goin' to, boss?" asked Sonny.

"I don't fuckin' know," grumbled Tony, "to a fuckin' hospital first. After that, Mexico maybe. Aruba, Jamaica, Key Largo, Montego... anywhere that's not here!"

"Uh, _hefe_? Montego's part of Jamaica," corrected Hector.

"Shut up!" snapped Tony. "Well what are you waiting for? Let's get moving!"

* * *

 **Sector Rho-1136**  
 **Alpha Quadrant, Northern Hemisphere,**  
 **Planet Terra Nova (?).**

It had been two hours since they had landed and they had made considerable progress moving inland.

Brother Captain Raphael Acastus looked back and forth. His helmet display auspex indicated that the street he was standing on was completely devoid of human life for at least a hundred meters in each direction. _Good_. Most of the natives of this city had turned out to be unarmed civilians and had fled once the Fists had manifested their intentions clearly and visibly for all to see. Those few natives who had tried to resist and fight back were armed with naught much more than the same feeble little stub-guns as those they had seen earlier, which could only charitably be described as "weapons" if at all, for they could hardly scratch the paint on his power armor. At one point, a squad of several more heavily equipped native soldiers had arrived, armed with some type of autogun, grenades, and some kind of black flak armor with only the word "SWAT" scrawled upon them; they ended up dying as quickly as anyone else.

Having made sure of this sector's abandonment, Acastus turned to his left. The building that he and his squad had elected to serve as their forward operating base was a low, three-storey red brick structure. With purposeful gait, he strode in through the archway and into the building, every footstep of his leaving cracks in the floor tiling and making the furniture and light fixtures above him rattle.

The interior of this building was a strange place indeed. The walls of this room were lined with banks of large box-shapes, each about the height of a regular, unaugmented Human. Small screens adorned the front of each box, and beneath it, all manner of command input devices - large round buttons and little joysticks and blinking lights. The plethora of dazzling colors and bright artistic paintings covering the walls suggested that the structure was an entertainment gathering place of some sorts, but it was the first place where they could find a concentration of computer machinery, and thus, it must be somehow linked into the planet's comm network. And, for all Acastus knew, one of those machines mayhaps even be hosting an abominable intelligence somewhere within - one could never be too certain as to what exactly traitorous governors were up once they no longer considered themselves bound by the Imperium's law - which was why Acastus had put Brother-Adept Tektus to the task of examining and sifting through all of their data and seeing what he could find.

At that moment, the Techmarine was standing at the far side of the room, perched in front of one such machine, his back facing Acastus. The controls were far too small and delicate for the Tektus's armored hands to manipulate, so instead he had two of his servo-arms work the inputs for him. Acastus peered over his shoulder to see what had piqued the adept's attention.

The screen depicted an overview of a maze set against a black background; the halls and corridors of which were lined with small coins or pellets. A round yellow orb with a large mouth was navigating its way through these passageways, chomping loudly as it appeared to consume these pellets with much gusto. Acastus noticed that the orb's movements across the screen matched up with Tektus' manipulation of the controls, meaning that, presumably, the yellow orb was representative of Tektus' navigation of the device's mainframe. He also noted four small sprites, that looked like small living globular chunks with large glowering eyes. These creatures were in four different colors, one red, one pink, one a bright blue, and one orange. Perhaps these were indicative of the network's defensive protocols, trying desperately to thwart Brother-Adept Tektus?

"Primitive, and yet, oddly amusing," remarked Tektus, calmly, as the yellow orb continued chomping and consuming its way across the map, the ghostly sprites in aggressive pursuit of it. The yellow orb reached one pellet, larger than the others, and upon ingesting, produced the immediate effect of turning all four of the ghostly shapes into a hue of dark ultramarine blue. It was a curious sight indeed.

"Brother-Adept," interjected Acastus, "when you are finished having amused yourself, perhaps you could enlighten me as to any useful information you have been able to glean about the planet from it?"

"Aye, Brother-Captain, though not in the manner you mayhaps have been hoping for," replied Tektus. At that moment, the yellow orb was chomping its way towards the nearest forlorn-looking ghost.

"Oh?" said Acastus, "explain."

"Unfortunately, it would appear our initial assumptions were false; these machine-assisted entertainments are not in any way connected to any planet-spanning communications network as far as I can yet discern," stated Tektus, flatly.

"What?" spat Acastus, "so we have been wasting our time at this establishment."

"Not entirely, Brother-Captain," said Tektus, "these child's play-things have nonetheless given me some deeper insight into the nature of this world." At that moment, the yellow orb reached the blue ghost-shaped figure, and chomped down on it, vanquishing it.

"How so?"

"Well, despite their seeming primarily recreational function, I believe these games are a covert form of military training, much like the countless simulations we were put through back in the monastery, like the innumerable games of 4-D chess we were encouraged to play in what little downtime was afforded to us. Games such as this... ' _Pack-Man'_ here serve the multiple purposes of leisure, but also in developing key skills in those who partake in them, such as coordination and reflexes, as well as subtly encouraging participants in these games to cultivate a certain aggressive and competitive mindset, as well as also offering supervising authorities a means of measuring each participating individual's performance against others (hence, the keeping of a "high score" which, as you can see here by the way, I am about to top, of course, in the Omnissiah's name).

"For instance, that game over there is called _'Missile Command'_ in the natives' language (which appears to be a base derivative of an ancient tongue once spoken in the days when the first machine spirits emerged), and it appears to be a simple simulation of a ground-based anti-missile defense system. Those two games over there are called _'Starfighter'_ and _'Asteroids'_ and they seem to be simplified representations of space combat. That station over there is called _'Dig Dug'_ and it simulates a lone individual's battle against some underground parasitic organisms native to this world. And that station over there is entitled _'Dragon's Lair'_ and as you can see it is noticeably different from the rest, taking the form more of an interactive that encourages the player to take the role of a lone and gallant questing knight.

"Rudimentary devices, all of them, but no less effective in inculcating within all a certain aggressive and fiercely individualistic streak from an early age. What I did not find were any comparable ones teaching the importance of obedience, discipline, and unyielding faith in the Emperor. Which leads me to conclude that this is a society where the individual is cultivated to value his own well-being over that of the collective. I... hmmm, interesting."

"What is it, Brother-Adept?"

"I have just reached Level 256, and look here, the right half of the screen has just glitched. Fascinating. I wonder if this is perhaps due to a hidden scrap-code in the game's core programming. Perhaps there is a message hidden somewhere within these garbled lines of code. Must investigate further."

"Brother-Captain!" called Brother Metalion, approaching them.

"Any luck contacting the fleet?" asked Acastus.

"Negative, although Brother-Sergeant Sicario wished to update us on his progress."

"Go on."

"Sicario is advancing west towards us, but he is as yet three klicks east of our position. It is a wide avenue, one paved with five-pointed pentagrams set into the pavement, each with a brass name set into it."

"A burial ground?" remarked Acastus, "a monument to this world's great leaders perhaps."

"Indeed," said Metalion, "he also reported a large pagoda-like structure; it appears to be some kind of house of worship - there were many handprints and footprints engraved into the plaza in front of it."

"A house of worship..." muttered Acastus, "did it, perchance, bear the Imperial Aquila?"

"It did not, though Sicario nonetheless felt obliged, in lieu of one, to carve his own upon its face."

Acastus grunted approval - it might serve as a suitable forward operating base, where Battle Brothers and other Imperial forces in the area could rally and plan their next course of action.

But still, the thought of it irked him - a temple that had been bereft of the Aquila. Now, 'twas true that some peoples and worlds throughout the Imperium chose to honor _alternative_ forms of The Emperor, and that these practices were tolerated by the Ecclesiarchy and the various chapters to varying degrees (some less so than others).

And yet, there was something fundamentally wrong and indecent about _this_ world and its profound... _faithlessness_ , its materialism, whether manifested in the countless machine-entertainments that now surrounded him, or in the update from Traigo's squad, who had landed several dozen klicks to the east, in the middle of some odious sprawling castle complex called a _"Diz-Nee-Land"_ where the natives seemed to be fawning over some vile abhuman rodent idol.

Acastus stood in the doorway and gazed out at the distant skyscrapers and mountains of this strange world. They were no longer on Terra Nova anymore, that much had become apparent by now. Nothing on this planet matched any of the intelligence they had reviewed beforehand. But what was also increasingly clear was that this world existed outside of the Emperor's dominion, and therefore it would have to be brought into compliance and expunged of its faithlessness and false idols once it had been pacified.

Brother Captain Acastus closed his eyes, deep in contemplation, though his helmet sensors remained alert and active, ready to warn him of any approaching hostiles. Somewhere on this world, he had been informed, there existed an extremely powerful psyker, the likes of which were unlike any their Librarian had rarely ever felt before. Perhaps it was this being who was responsible for cutting this world off from the rest of the Imperium and, with it, the Emperor's grace? If that was the case... then it would be up to them to find this being, and purge it once and for all, in the name of the Emperor.


	17. Smalltown Boy

_**Important Note:** the different plotlines advance at different speeds, so some of the subchapters in each chapter may be set hours apart rather than occurring at the same time. Officially, the invasion began on Oct 11, 1984, at 9am in Los Angeles, so all other events thereafter should be timed accordingly._

* * *

 **Chapter XVII:**

 **SMALLTOWN BOY**

 **Somewhere over Pennsylvania.**

The business card was sleek dark blue with golden-colored lettering. Curiously, there weren't any contact details, no telephone or fax numbers or any street address, though there was a fancy-looking 3D hologram bar code he could see when viewing the card from a different angle. "I can't say I'm familiar with your organization," he replied, politely, as he looked up from the card his impromptu guest had given him. "Are you a large firm?"

"Respectably sized," replied Adrienne, taking a seat in one of the chairs facing him. "It's an honor to meet you in person - again. You may not remember me, but I once worked with your father, the late senator."

"Well, it's a pleasure," replied George, though secretly his mind was going " _what?_ " He wasn't exactly a spry young fellow himself, and yet Mrs. Kovacs here didn't look a day over thirty-five, maybe forty at most (maybe she'd interned as a teenager with his office back in the 60's?). He took a closer look. She was cleanly and curtly dressed in a blue power suit (yes, including shoulder pads), and with tidy shoulder-length auburn hair. And she was tall - very tall, well over 6'. George was a pretty tall fellow himself, so the fact that her face was a few inches above his unnerved him. Maybe he just wasn't used to dealing with people like this.

"I'm afraid, ma'am, you've caught me at an inconvenient time," he said, frankly. "We'll be touching down at Andrews Field in about 15 minutes or so, and once we're groundside, I'll be _very_ busy. Whatever you have to say, make it quick."

"Well, I guess I'd best get to the point then," muttered Adrienne, "Mr. Vice President, my timing is not coincidental; I've been aware for some time of certain... _phenomena,_ shall we say. Phenomena that I believe are connected to this sudden crisis we're facing. I decided to come here and offer whatever assistance I may."

"Oh?" remarked George, raising an eyebrow. The attack started less than an hour ago, so she _must_ have known it was coming for some time, or else how would she have been able to make it to Philly to seek him out in that time? And... if that was the case, then why hadn't they tried to warn people about it? He was furious all of a sudden, thinking of just how many lives could have been saved. With even just one hour of warning, why, they could have sounded the civil defense alarms; that would have cleared the streets, gotten people into shelters, and gotten the military ready; maybe even intercepted each of these alien attack craft as they entered the atmosphere, shot them out of the sky before each one could touch down.

Then again, he realized, even if this "Mrs. Kovacs" somehow knew what was going to happen and tried to warn people, who would have been believed them? He'd never heard of them before, so clearly they weren't a group who held much influence at all among Washington inner circles. And, on top of that, it was possible that Mrs. Kovacs here was just lying and telling him this now to try and pique his interest - generally, it's easier to claim that you knew something unexpected was obvious once it, you know, actually happened. For all he knew, this Mrs. Kovacs was probably waiting around in Philly, and once this invasion started, used it as a convenient pretext to get an audience with him. Though that still left the mystery of how the hell was she able to get onto this plane, why the secret service agents somehow weren't able to tell that she _obviously_ was an imposter.

"My, you must have some _very_ good sources," he spoke, bitterly, trying to find something meaningful to say.

"The exact details are not important right now," she replied, "what matters is what we can do regarding the current situation. Rest assured, Mr. Vice President, my colleagues and I feel for every life touched by this global travesty. We're all loyal and patriotic Americans here, and we are prepared to offer whatever support, resources, and intelligence we can."

"Uh, thank you," said George, putting on a face of gratitude. Years of experience in his line of work had taught him that gifts rarely ever, if at all, come without some strings attached. Whoever this lady was and whatever she had to offer, he could already tell that this show of magnanimity had an agenda behind it.

He decided he needed some more info on who exactly this person was. Which was why, it turns out, while he and his impromptu guest were talking, his right hand had slipped down to the drawer where he kept his secret research terminal.

On top of the thick mahogany desk was the Presidential computer (one of them anyway), an IBM Personal Computer XT. However, at George's insistence, a second, smaller unit was kept concealed and built into the desk, accessible through one of the drawers - serving in the CIA, he knew it always paid to be prepared for every eventuality, like he or POTUS sitting here one day and being able to discreetly retrieve and review information while entertaining a guest seated on the other side of the desk without them knowing about it. He continued the cordial conversation, even offered his guest a drink from the presidential 21-year bourbon (George, like his father before him, was a man of fine tastes, and he and Ronny always made sure that a fully-stocked bar was kept at every major government facility, and even in the Presidential Cadillac), but while all this was going on, he was secretly typing in the details he could recall from the card, monochrome green 8-bit letters appearing across the black background as they were being entered into the computer system.

Turns out it was easier said than done; the keys on the board were thick and clunky and made a rather audible "tap" when punched. _Bloody hell_ , he thought, _I hope one day IBM or maybe those folks at Apple or at ENCOM will try to invent, you know, a quieter keyboard or something.._. But regardless, he got it done, and then hit ENTER. Special communications hardware built into the jet processed his request and then beamed it directly to Fort Meade, Maryland. Now all he had to do was sit back and keep talking, and soon he'd have all the information he'd need on this unexpected visitor of his.

The NSA, you see, commanded the greatest concentration of computing power anywhere in the world: twenty Cray X-MPs wired together in their basement at Fort Meade, each unit capable of 800 MFLOPS, each unit's bank of ultra-high-capacity datatapes able to hold an astonishing _38 gigabytes_ of information compiled over the years with details on every known individual and organization in the (ahem) _free world_. If there was any information out there on Little Miss Kovacs here, George would have it up on his little screen in mere _minutes_!

* * *

 **Only a few hundred miles away...**

It was bright and sunny - too bright and sunny. Sgt. Kalum Shrack, 112th Kobran Legion, frowned. They were supposed to be targeting this area of the planet under the cover of darkness, and yet somehow they had ended up completely on completely the _frakkin'_ _wrong_ _side of the planet_ since it was broad daylight.

At that moment, he and the rest of his squad were riding desant on the back of _Viper Alpha_ , one of the Leman Russ Main Battle Tanks of the 112th's 1st Advance Armor Company. Two tank platoons had dropped in via Sky Talon alongside the 7th and 8th infantry companies, including Shrack's. Their orders had been to secure the drop-site, but when no real enemy resistance was forthcoming (as well as, you know, it being _day instead of night_ ), it didn't take long to realize that something was way off. Shrack had begun to have the unpleasant thought festering at the back of his mind that this might not even be the right planet at all, but right now, there were more pressing matters to focus on. The orders coming in were that they were now to rendezvous with the rest of the 112th, in the area but as yet some ways away.

Shrack took a moment to get his bearings. _Viper Alpha_ was trundling along what looked like a major thoroughfare, with two separate roadways, each with two lanes of traffic in one direction. Around them, there were several vehicles of the natives - smaller, four-wheeled cars, some boxy shaped, others slightly more rounded, and all with large glass windows which, along with the fact that neither they nor their owners were armed, indicated that they were peacetime civilian vehicles. This made it even stranger - this was clearly no active warzone.

The natives' cars were all either stopped, or moving, trying to clear out of the tank's way, or else driving in the completely opposite direction. Of those stopped along the edge of the road, some of their occupants had gotten out and were staring in confusion, but as long as they didn't fight back, that suited the Kobrans just fine. One such car he could see was a large and boxy vehicle, made of metal but with a panel of wood running down the length of it; the occupants of this car were a family; the father, standing outside, looking scared and confused, and (presumably) his wife and two kids sitting inside, also staring at the tank as it rumbled past. Shrack kept his right hand on the laspistol grip on his belt, tensed and ready to pull it out just in case they might be wandering into a trap, but he kept his left hand up, signaling to the other men riding with him to hold fire until they were actually shot at.

Ahead of Shrack, the tank's turret hatch creaked open, and a head adorned in a dark-blue peaked cap popped up. "Sergeant," addressed Lt. Davich Biggs, commander of the tank platoon, "a word."

"Sir," replied Shrack.

"Good news is that Cogsy here managed to fix the leak," said Biggs.

"Verily, the right incantation and application of the Omnissiah's blessed plugging gel has sufficed to seal the troublesome fuel line," added a flat and highly mechanical-sounding voice from within the tank, somewhere below Biggs. It belonged to Adept Dromio, the techpriest assigned to their task force. The smell of leaked prometheum rising up from the cabin was rather pungent, and Shrack wasn't jealous of the men working below, manning the Russ while struggling to fix the parts damaged during... whatever deep strike mishap had gone on to land them here in the middle of nowhere.

"What's the catch?" asked Shrack. By now, he had probably served long enough to know that every piece of good news was almost inevitably accompanied by the other kind.

"We've leaked plenty already," grumbled Biggs, "we'll either have to continue the rest of the way on foot, or we'll have to refuel soon." Shrack, of course, knew already which one of the two options they would end up taking; the Kobran Legion in general had a fond attachment to their mighty war machines, and Biggs especially wouldn't dare once, not in a millennium, ever be caught abandoning his beloved _Viper_ behind.

Which of course then meant that Shrack and his men would either have to scavenge for prometheum somewhere, or else have to get to work - the Russ's HL230 V12 engine might be able to run on wood in an emergency (and there was plenty of that all around them), but someone would still have to fell a couple trees, mulch 'em up into pulp... yeah, better to just try and commandeer some of the natives' own fuel. He looked around. The cars around them evidently ran on some sort of internally combustible fuel, as evidenced by exhaust pipes jutting out from behind them, but then that would mean siphoning off fuel from maybe several _dozen_ of them at the very least...

Up ahead, he noticed a couple of low buildings alongside the highway and a large parking area - this must have been some sort of vehicle servicing station. There was a large green and white sign, upon which was painted what looked to be some kind of long-necked dragon, and above it, in large red lettering, the word SINCLAIR.

The complex itself was consisted of a pair of low, boxy buildings, as well as a roof covering the forecourt, supported on four steel pillars; beneath this roof, Shrack beheld four boxy metal shapes protruding up from the ground with rubber hoses attached, which he recognized as looking similar to Imperial refueling stations. Yes, there was no doubt now what the purpose of this structure was.

He also took a moment to note what of the natives' vehicles were parked outside the building. There were six of them, all looking to be of the same strange two-part articulated design: what looked to be the driver's cab section, shorter and mounted on three pairs of tires, and attached to that, a longer, boxy trailer that must have been the cargo-carrying portion. One of these trailers was painted red and bore in large, curvy white lettering the words COCA-COLA (whatever that name meant). Another was painted blue and had white blocky letters and a small five-pointed pentagram on it, spelling WALMART. The remaining lorries were all unpainted, just sleek and silvery in color. As they pulled closer yet, he also noticed a row of powered bikes parked in front of the first building - very large bikes with thick tires, though not as large as those attack bikes of the Adeptus Astartes.

"Sir, it looks like a refueling station of some kind, sir," remarked Pvt. Grint, who was seated just behind Shrack.

"There! Take us in," commanded Biggs, pointing towards the complex; below him, _Viper's_ driver obeyed, and the tank's treads shifted direction for a moment, pointing them towards their new destination.

Shrack could hear a metallic, mechanical sniffing sound from below. "Indeed, I am sensing in the air diffuse traces of a hydrocarbon-based analogue of prometheum," remarked the techpriest, flatly, "not as powerful as the grade we employ, but it should suit our purposes."

 _Viper Alpha_ rumbled off the highway, across the grass, and into the building complex, coming to a halt. Shrack jumped down onto the ground, and his men followed suit. But no sooner had they done so when he noticed the door on the building open, and one of the natives came stomping out, looking sullen and angry.

This native was a woman - roughly middle-aged, overweight, with glasses and crooked teeth. She was wearing a very short denim blue skirt, and on top a grey shirt, the front of which was decorated with some flag, perhaps a sign of her loyalties. Shrack took a closer look - this flag was red, with a blue "X" across the middle of it, encrusted with white stars. And there was writing beneath it, though he could not understand what language it was in.

Ah yes, and she was brandishing a firearm, which looked like a shotgun though Shrack couldn't be quite so sure, and she was pointing it angrily at them. The men, true to their training, presented their lasguns, but Shrack kept his left hand raised; there was no need for unnecessary violence just yet.

"Hail! In the Name Of The Emperor!" shouted Lt. Biggs, appearing in the top hatch of the tank, "Citizen, we will be commandeering your fuel supplies for the Imperium! I suggest you return to your humble abode at this time!"

The native looked confused at Biggs' declaration, but then shouted back. Shrack didn't understand a word she was saying, other than singling out one or two individual words like "Gawdless-kommunists" and "Kommie-natzees", whatever those meant. And she kept waving her shotgun, threateningly.

"This is your last chance," responded Biggs, firm but unrelenting, "we demand your fuel in the Name Of The Emperor! Stand in our way or stand down, we are taking it all the same. The choice is yours." Shrack nodded, and ordered two of the men, Pvt. Pyle and Lukero, to head towards the nearest fuel pump.

At this point, the native woman must have lost it or panicked or something, because she fired at Pvt. Pyle. **_BANG_**. The Guardsman's flak armor was able to soak up most of the shot, but it was still fired at close enough range that Pyle stumbled backwards, lost his balance, and fell flat on his arse.

"SON OF A HRUD!" swore Pyle, angrily; Shrack noticed there were fragments and scratches on the Guardsman's faceplate - if not for the full helmets worn by the Cobrans, the private would have taken shot to the face and eyes, might even be seriously injured.

While all of this was going on, Pvt. Lukero, true to his training, pointed his lasgun and returned fire. There was a loud _**CRACK**_ as the lasbolt cut through the air, and struck the native's shoulder; she didn't even have time to scream as her arm was blown clean off and her chest ripped open, blood spurting everywhere.

There were more gunshots. Shrack looked up. His helmet HUD indicated that there were maybe a couple dozen more people inside the building, all with guns of their own and shooting back. Stubshot whistled and ricocheted past them. This time, Shrack's men didn't need to be commanded what to do; they immediately took cover and returned fire.

The other natives, to their credit, weren't standing out in the open, and were actually shooting from cover inside the building. Unfortunately for them, though...

"The structure walls appear to be thin, mainly wood and sheet metal construction," observed Dromio, "you are of course aware what this means?"

Shrack nodded. He flipped the switch on his lasgun from auto to semi-auto, and then dialed up the power setting. Then, he took aim, and fired. The amped-up lasbeam struck the wall of the building; there was a _**POP**_ sound, and he could see that a small round hole, about an inch across, had been burned clean through the wall (and probably straight through the entire structure), accompanied by smoke rising from the burnt wood around the hole, and screaming from within.

The rest of the squad followed suit, firing on the structure, completely plastering the whole place with lasbolt-holes until at last it looked less like a house and more like a block of Helvetikan cheese. At some point, two of the men inside tried to rush out through the door; Shrack could see them, dressed head to toe in black leather, with long shaggy hair and long shaggy beards; they dropped dead a split second later from the lasfire from the rest of the squad. The counter on Shrack's helmet display hit 0, indicating no more moving lifeforms within.

"Hostiles clear," said Shrack.

"Alright, let's load up and move on," said Biggs.

The squad dispersed to secure the area while _Viper Alpha_ began to maneuver in place, it's heavy plasteel tracks grinding up the asphalt, turning to get its fueling port lined up with the fuel pump's short hose. Adept Dromio also finally emerged from the tank and climbed down to the ground, his crimson red robes and sleek mechanical appendages gleaming in the sunlight.

"Interesting," remarked Dromio, observing the first native's disarmed (in both senses of the term) and dismembered body. "Her apparel appears to have wording upon it transcribed in a most ancient tongue, one not spoken since the days the very first machine spirits came into existence."

"What does it say?" asked Shrack.

"It appears to say something to the effect of 'You can have my gun when you pry it from my cold, dead hands'."

"Really?" remarked Pvt. Lukero, "in which case, nah, she can keep it. Obviously it wasn't very good anyway."

"I beg to differ," chimed in Pvt. Pyle.

It took a few minutes more, first for Dromio to figure out how to reconfigure these strange fuel pumps (namely, how to bypass this need of something called a... "kredit kard"?), and then get _Viper_ filled up (pretty much sucking up all of whatever the station had left - but yes, definitely far better use of time than siphoning the fuel out of a hundred or so native vehicles). Yes, this fuel was of much lower grade than prometheum, but it would suffice.

In the mean time, while _Viper_ was filling up, Shrack noticed a large metal box, about the height of a man, and painted red, with a glass front (well, what had been a glass front before it got shattered in the firefight). It too had the strange words COCA-COLA written upon it in that curly typeface. Shrack noticed rows upon rows of glass bottles full of some dark liquid inside, and decided to pull out several of them to see what they were about. They were still cold, little droplets of condensation just now beginning to form. He pried open the bottle's little metal stopper, opened his helmet's visor, and took a nice long sip; the strange beverage, whatever it was, was fizzy but had an incredibly sweet, cloying taste to it. Not alcoholic at all and yet still most refreshing, like an ancient ambrosia of a time long forgotten. Shrack figured he'd need a break; their day was just getting started.

* * *

 **Somewhere in the Sea Of Japan.**

He must have been swimming for hours, or at least that's what it felt like. Sokolov could see the light just up ahead; it could not be a lighthouse, for he knew from their last reported position before he had bailed from Dasha that they were in the middle of the sea, and too far from land. And if it was a boat, it clearly wasn't moving, neither away from nor towards him. That's didn't leave much else in his mind as to what exactly it could be, but he had a suspicion - one would have been strong enough to make him hesitate, if not for curiosity at that moment getting the better of him.

As he swam nearer, he could finally make out that the light was attached to what looked to be another person, also bobbing up and down in the waves, just like he was. He hung low for a moment, unsure of what to do next. Clearly, this was the enemy - who else could it be? Americans? Sokolov knew from training what uniforms the capitalists and their allies wore. And neither could it be Voronin or any other pilot in the force, also bailing out of their planes like Sokolov had, as he could see from the light - even from his distance and in the middle of night - that this stranger's flight-suit, helmet, and inflatable vest weren't in any pattern that he had ever seen before.

In order to cope with the high altitudes and incredible g-forces they could be subjected to during flight, MiG-25 pilots wore special VKK-6M pressure suits that almost looked more like something appropriate for a Cosmonaut (even down to the bright orange color). The stranger's outfit, as he could see, was blue; with a white helmet with visor and rebreather piece. There were white pauldrons over both shoulders; the one on the left was stamped with a silver-colored winged skull, the one on the right with what looked like some double-headed eagle, just like the coat-of-arms of the old Tsarist regime before the Revolution. In some ways, it looked not too different, at least not in principle, to flight-suits like the one he himself was wearing, but when it came down to exact details, it looked like no nation on Earth that Sokolov could recall. Yes, it was clear just who this person was.

Sokolov hung low, unsure what to do next - or rather, he tried to, as his life vest did what it was supposed to and kept his head and upper torso above the waves and clearly visible. Fortunately, it looked like the other person was facing away from him right now and hadn't yet noticed him.

But that was about to change. Just then, the ocean began to swell as a large wave appeared in front of the other person. As the wave swept past, it carried the other person for a bit, and brought him crashing right into Sokolov.

The pilot turned on the spot and saw who he was right away. For a split second, he stared his opponent face to face - could almost see his eyes in the black visor (or were they his own, just being reflected? He didn't know nor care).

The pilot, whoever he was, must've had the exact same thought running through his head, must've recognized him as the enemy, for his first reaction was to crane back his head, and then butt it forward, smashing it right into Sokolov's. Two helmeted heads collided with an audible **_thunk_** , and Sokolov saw a crack appear in his helmet's visor.

But Lt. Rodion Sokolov was a trained combat pilot of the _Voyenno Vozdushnye Sily_ 1st Air Army, at the forefront of the Motherland's defense; he wasn't about to go down without a fight, let whoever this enemy was get away with it. While his opponent had struck first, Sokolov had already gotten both of his hands gripped tightly on either side of his opponent's helmet. And then he pulled, with all his strength. They were both clothed in thickly padded flight-suits and helmets, which made a brawl fist-to-fist a little clumsy and ineffective (if not already awkward enough from the inflated life vests they had around their necks), so the only way to overpower his opponent, if at all, would be to rob him of one of those advantages.

And so he wrestled his arms tightly and forcefully around his opponent's head, and he pulled and he pulled. His opponent, meanwhile, punched and kicked and lashed back at him, but Sokolov wasn't letting go, not for the life of him. Then, one of his fingers felt something like a latch. Without a second thought, he snapped the latch open. And there was a hiss of air, and the helmet came clean off, hitting the water next to them with a splash.

In the light from the beacon, he could finally get at a good look at the face of the enemy.

Truth be told, Sokolov was half expecting to see the face of some hideous alien monster. Instead, as he probably should have guessed from the uniform, his opponent was very much human indeed. The face that revealed itself from under that white helmet was a soft and round one, with long black hair and full lips and high cheekbones.

He, no, _she_ shouted something at him that he could not understand (though figured, judging from her tone and inflection, that she probably wasn't saying anything particularly nice), and then she tried to punch back at him. At least now that her helmet was off, Sokolov responded with a punch to her face.

"That's for Dasha!" bellowed Sokolov, " _Kurva_!"

Just then, their brawl was interrupted by something bizarre. The water around them began to bubble and foam, and he could feel being pushed from below by a great force, like a jet of water was just now shooting up from the bottom of the ocean. Evidently she too had felt it, judging from the look on her face.

Next thing they knew, there was a great gush of water and foam splashing all around them, and his feet felt something solid. An enormous and black object had just appeared all around them, like a whale coming up to spout. He and his opponent now lay sprawled out across the top of it - tired, dripping wet, flopping around like two fish just pulled out of the sea and deposited on the bottom of a fisherman's boat. Somewhere behind him, he could hear a metallic screeching as a hatch was opened, and then suddenly, night seemed to turn to day as an extremely powerful searchlight was turned on and pointed at them.

"This is the Navy!" boomed a voice over loudspeaker from somewhere behind him, speaking in Russian (though Sokolov noted a slight Lithuanian accent), "hands up!"

Sokolov knew who it was, but obliged all the same, reaching for the sky. His opponent did not, just lay there, staring daggers at him and whoever was behind him. He could hear the sounds of bootsteps on steel rungs, like someone (or rather, several someones) was climbing down from the sub's conning tower and walking slowly towards him. They stopped just a couple meters short.

"Comrade-Lieutenant Sokolov, I presume?" spoke a voice at last. Its owner was different from the one who had spoken over loudspeaker just a moment ago, but it was also with a Lithuanian accent.

" _Da_ ," replied Sokolov, climbing to his feet but still holding his hands up in the air.

"Men, seize the other one!" commanded the speaker. Seconds later, two sailors entered Sokolov's field of vision, strode right past him, pointing Kalashnikov rifles at the woman. He slowly turned around, still keeping his hands up, to face the speaker.

There were three other men there, standing right behind him, two in black-and-gold officer coats, and one in an enlisted man's uniform, also holding a rifle. The speaker was the foremost of the three of them, a bearded man probably in his 40's, with his rank insignia denoting him as the captain of this vessel.

"I am Captain Valius," spoke the leader, stepping forward. "This is the K-1822. Our orders were to recover you and the enemy pilot and aircraft. It seems we have knocked out at least the first two birds with one stone." He stole a glance towards the bow. Sokolov too turned to look; he could see the woman being hand-cuffed by the two sailors, bleeding slightly from where he had punched her.

The captain turned back to face Sokolov and continued: "You must be tired and cold after your ordeal. Please, follow me."

Sokolov thanked the captain, and was about to head off towards to go below deck and warm up, when suddenly, the other officer on deck, the shorter and ruddier-looking individual, stopped him and pulled him aside.

"Comrade Sokolov," began the second officer, "I have been informed about your heroic actions in neutralizing this enemy aircraft. Rest assured, you have served the Motherland most honorably. But... I insist that you be debriefed at once, it is of upmost importance to the Union. I am sure we all have..." he glanced at their prisoner as she was slowly escorted past them, back towards the conning tower, "...much to talk about. Yes?"

* * *

 **South Broadway,  
Pine Valley, State Of California.**

From the sound of it, the invaders, whoever they were, were now tearing up Courthouse Square and the surrounding area. It pained Marty to think about everyone he knew there - Stacy and Linda, who waitressed at Joe's Pizza; Kevin, who ran the video game arcade; old Mr. Coriander and his bookstore. As far as Marty knew, those places were all going up in smoke at this very moment. On the other hand, downtown might just keep them busy long enough for Mom and Dad and Michael and Lauren and the other folks out on the westside of town to get away. Jenna's family lived in a house out in the hills south of town, which was the safest place he could think of, and why he'd sent her home to get his family to head there while he himself went running off to find someone else he knew would be in grave danger.

All around him, South Broadway was in chaos. There were people out and about, some running away, others out on the sidewalk, rooted to the ground in a mix of horror and fascination as they pointed and watched the smoke rising from a mile away. There was a loud _**crash**_ as, several blocks ahead of him, a car, a '72 Ford Cortina, ran a red light and t-boned a VW Golf; Marty didn't wait and see if any of the two drivers made it out alive.

Up ahead, he saw the Wendy's where Michael worked, coming up on his right. Marty jumped off his skateboard and ran inside, calling out for his brother. There was no reply, and the place looked completely abandoned; there were meals left at the tables, uneaten, and the cash registers were all open and empty. The stove was still running; there was an acrid smell of burning burger patties in the air, and the kitchen fire alarm was beeping. It looked like everyone here, staff and customers all, must've bailed as soon as the shooting started. Good. It meant that Michael must be back home right now, with Mom and Dad and Lauren. Marty was relieved; at least his family was safe.

Just as he was leaving back out onto the street, all of a sudden, the sky darkened for a moment as something huge appeared above the roof of the Wendy's. Marty was so surprised by this that he dove and hugged the ground, as if expecting a nuke to go off or something, like in one of those old cartoons with the turtle, "duck and cover" and all that shit. Against his better judgment, he looked up.

The black outline of an airplane whizzed past, low to the ground, its engines deafening; the glass windows on the restaurant were rattling like mad such that a couple of them shattered. F-4 Phantom. Marty used to like collecting and building model airplanes with Dad, and so he could tell what it was just by looking at the shape of it. It was flying slow and close enough that he could even see the markings on the plane as it flew past - the 144th Fighter Wing of the California Air National Guard, stationed in Fresno.

 _ **BBBRRRAAAAAPPPPP!,**_ roared the Phantom's nose-mounted 20mm rotary cannon, **_BBBBRRRRRAAAAAAPPPPP!_**

Another Phantom appeared into view seconds later, the wingman to the first. It too added its own cadence to the choir, ripping apart whatever was going on downtown.

Marty climbed back to his feet, but as he did so, he could hear returning fire, distinct from the Phantoms. He turned around and looked. The two aircraft were circling roughly over the spot where Courthouse Square was, but there was a stream of tracer fire coming up from below. The first Phantom banked hard to the left taking evasive action, but the second Phantom was hit, small explosions breaking out all across the tail section and empennage; it spun violently out of control and went careening to the ground, and Marty saw a fireball flare up from where it landed. It was flying too low and too fast for the pilot to have had enough time to bail out.

Marty shook his head, and continued on his way. Just beyond the Wendy's was an empty lot, and beyond that stood... the Doktor's house.

Everyone in town knew something about _Herr-Doktor_ Ferdinand Lothar Maximillian Von Braun (or "the Count" as everyone called him, after that character on _Sesame Street_ , though Marty just called him "Dok"). He was a bit of a local legend - some eccentric old chap who had lived out here, alone, for over three decades, and even then, he was so secretive and strange and still seemed so downright foreign. Of course, there were rumors going about as to just where "Zee Doktor" was from, and what he was doing before he came to America. Whenever anyone asked him, he never gave a straight answer at all, and after a while people learned to just stopped asking.

What was known was that Von Braun had money, and lots of it. The house that now stood before Marty was a large two-storey mansion (though, admittedly, it sometimes reminded him vaguely of the Bates Mansion, or Amityville, or some other place where you would expect things to go bump in the night) and it was located along the stretch of South Broadway that used to be considered the nice part of town (at least before, you know, the 70's hit and the whole area decayed). Of course, there were rumors going around town as to just where had the Doktor gotten his personal fortune from. Some said he was the heir to some old noble family in Europe. Others said he got his wealth from the government, for work he was doing for them on God knows what. And then there were darker rumors too going around some people, that he had made his fortune back in WW2, and through far less reputable means.

Marty didn't know what to believe sometimes, and he knew by now to never ever bring up that subject with Dok. But he did know one thing and it was that Dok was always in need of someone to help him with chores, and he paid well. Just a couple more months working for him and Marty would be able to buy his own car! That, and you had to admit, hanging around Dok, doing household repairs and stuff and learning a thing or two about engineering probably taught him way more useful skills than any class they offered at Pine Valley High.

As he entered the front door, he was greeted by Rotwang, Dok's Rottweiler, who was just standing there, barking madly and jumping up and down. "Woah, easy boy," muttered Marty. Rotwang recognized Marty and ceased barking, though he still stood alert and growling, knowing, like they say dogs always do, that something going on outside was very wrong indeed.

"DOK!" shouted Marty, "where are you?"

No answer. Rotwang just stood there and whimpered, but the the fact that he was here meant Dok must still be here as well. Whatever it was folks might say about the Doktor, at least he'd never leave his dog home alone for long. Marty began to search each room of the house one by one. "DOK!" he shouted again, "it's me, Marty!"

If Dok's house looked creepy from the outside, it was just downright _bizarre_ on the inside. The kitchen, living room, dining room, and downstairs bathroom looked less than what their names indicated, and more like some bastard lovechild of some 50's Stepford house mated with Frankenstein's castle. Clean, stainless steel furniture, leather-bound seating, and bright (if a little bland and boring) wallpaper clashed with test-tubes, bubbling beakers, filing cabinets full of paperwork, coils of wiring, dinosaur fossils, a pair of tabletop Tesla coils, various machine parts, and other odd bits and bobs lying around everywhere. By now, Marty was used to it for the most part, though every time he came, Dok always had something new and unusual lying about. This time, so he noticed, it was some big old gnarly looking sword, six feet long, with a large, bright green gemstone inlaid into its elegantly-carved hilt. Marty noticed a stack of papers next to it with the heading on the front page reading "U.S. Air Force - CLASSIFIED - New Mexico Specimen No. 37DΔR-1. 7/8/47 Handle with EXTREME CAUTION."

But most bizarre of all was the study-room. The windows were all bricked up, leaving it dark, so the Doktor could carry out his work far from prying eyes. The far end of the room was dominated by Dok's personal computer, except that it was a HUGE thing - a tall, dull metallic block, easily the size of a wardrobe, rows and rows of tiny blinking red and yellow lights running up the center of it. A veritable forest of cables and wiring ran out of the back of it and connected to almost everything else in the room - some 20 or so monitor screens (of various makes and models from over the years), arranged in two rows, one along each wall; a fax machine; a telephone; and several other odd devices Marty didn't quite know. Oh, and a Mr. Coffee machine as well, for some odd reason. There was a persistent humming from the main unit that filled the room, accompanied by various bleeps, bloops, the whirring of tape reels, and the feverish clacking away of a keyboard. It was hot in here, and the air was thick with the smell of cigarette smoke.

Several of the screens were showing random lines upon lines of monochrome green-colored letters and numbers, that must have meant something to someone like Lewis, the class nerd (assuming that he was still alive, of course) but to Marty, they may as well have been a load of gibberish. Several other screens were displaying wireframe graphics, gridlines and weird geometric objects in white, blue, orange, green or pink tracing themselves across black backgrounds. In addition to the computer screens, there were also what actually turned out to be just four regular television sets, each tuned into a different channel; Marty's attention drew towards the one tuned to KTVU - the news anchors were onscreen, looking aghast as they drolled on about attacks going on in L.A., Miami, Dallas, London...

 _Shit_ , thought Marty. So it wasn't just Pine Valley where this alien invasion was going on. Oh God. Now it really was like something out of some weird science movie.

And then, finally, in the room, there was the Doktor himself. He was there, his wheelchair pulled up to his desk with his back towards Marty, typing away furiously at his keyboard, muttering away to himself in what sounded like German (Marty had spent enough time by now hanging around him that he could pick out a few words and phrases). He was dressed in just about what he always wore: a clean black suit and tie, glasses, black leather gloves, and his short grey hair slicked back though still a little wild and wavy in a couple places.

"Dok!" shouted Marty as he approached, "what're you doing? In case you haven't noticed, there's a damn war going on out there!"

"Oh, this? I've seen worse," remarked the Doktor, dismissively, not once taking his eyes off the screen. "You know, I wasn't much older than you are now when I lived through the Battle Of Berlin."

"I think there's shit out there far worse than frikkin' Nazis!" blurted Marty.

The Doktor paused, turned around on his chair to face Marty. He had a severe look on his thin, gaunt face, his sunken eyes visibly cold and piercing through those glasses. "The Soviets are _worse_ ," he remarked, bitterly.

Marty was a little taken aback by this. "Okay. Fine. But Dok... look, point is, it's dangerous out there! We need to get outta here! Like, right now!"

"Okay. _Ja_. Just a minute, _danke_ ," snapped the Doktor, turning back around to face his computer. "I could be on the verge of a very important breakthrough. Can you believe it? 30 years of work, and I have never seen the _Warp Capacitor_ acting up the way it is now. No less than _a hundred_ chrono-spatial rift sequences detected within the last hour! Simultaneously, and at different points around the globe. These alien invaders appear to be utilizing some form of transportation that quite literally bends the fabric of spacetime. Fascinating. I will have to study this phenomenon more closely."

"Huh?"

"Warp Capacitor. _Mein_ own invention," explained the Doktor, matter-of-factly. He pointed at what looked like a metal box with a glass front; inside it were three glowing blue tubes arranged in an inverted "Y" shape. A thick cable connected the box with the rest of the Doktor's computer setup. He continued: "I built it for the purposes of detecting micro-fluctuations and disturbances in the regular flow of the space-time continuum, but I never imagined we would be experiencing disruptions on the level of intensity nor abundance as those we have just witnessed. The correlation of these alien life-forms' arrival with the occurrence of these phenomena, as well as their appearance over major population centers (with none of them over any bodies of water, despite the fact that ocean covers 70% of the Earth's surface), suggests that these anomalies were deliberately created with the intent of targeting these areas. What we have here is nothing less than a military invasion by an alien power ranking somewhere in the high Type II to low Type III level on the Kardeshev Scale."

Marty simply stared, his mouth gaping open wide.

The Doktor continued: "oh, right. My apologies. Here, let me explain." He opened a drawer and pulled out a notepad and a pen, and began drawing on it. "Imagine if the entire material universe, or at least all four _conventional_ dimensions that we can perceive were represented as a flat, 2-dimensional sheet of rubber stretched out over a bed. Now imagine that I were to..."

Marty shook his head. "Okay, Dok, please, we don't have time for that right now!" He placed his hands on the handles of the Doktor's wheelchair, as if ready to pull him away from his workstation. "Listen! Downtown's gone! Just _gone_ , just like that! They're killing everything that moves on sight! We gotta get you outta town!"

The Doktor glared at Marty, but then also took a glance at the television, now showing live chopper footage of the destruction unfolding. "Very well then," he sighed, "just a few more items to finish up. Fortunately, I already have most of my data saved." As Marty stared on, he pulled a large cardboard office supplies box out from under his desk, and plonked it down on top of his desk. "Here, carry this," he commanded, pushing it across the tabletop.

Marty looked and saw it was full to the brim with an assorted mix of floppy-disks and cassette-tapes. _Jesus Christ!_ , thought Marty. Why, he must have had, like, _jigobytes and jigobytes_ of data stored in there! He groaned.

"Well, don't just stand there!" snapped the Doktor, mildly annoyed, " _Sich beeilen_! I have just one more disk to save."

"Uh... Dok?" said Marty, raising an eyebrow, "are you crazy? I can't carry _this_ , and push _you_ at the same time! We're never getting outta this place alive!"

"Oh, no problem. We shall _drive_ ," replied Dok, nonchalantly. He handed Marty a set of keys. "She's out in the garage out back. I haven't taken her out since I bought her, for obvious reasons." He cast a glance down as his feet. "I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to drive. I hope you don't mind."

"Uh...? What kind of car is it?" asked Marty, confused.


	18. Drive

**Notes** : special thanks goes out to **Jasonvoorhees525** who contributed the segment about "Malalic punk".

* * *

 **Chapter XVIII:**

 **DRIVE _  
_**

 **Pine Valley, California...**

Marty rushed out the backdoor, out towards the garage, the box full of the Doktor's precious data in his arms. Rotwang the Rottweiler bounded close behind him out the door, but as they crossed the backyard, he bolted ahead of Marty. The staccato _boom-boom-boom_ of the alien invaders' guns sounded much closer now then it was when he entered, possibly only a few blocks away.

He got to the large, barn-like garage. It was a separate structure from the rest of Dok's house, and built in the style of a Dutch-barn - probably a remnant of the old days of Pine Valley, built back in the roaring 20's and not upgraded like the rest of the house was back in the 50's, aside from a few bits and bobs like the automatic door opener.

Rotwang got there first, and sat down on the ground and waited, obediently, looking to Marty. He barked.

"Okay, okay boy, I got this," muttered Marty as he fumbled in his pocket, and pulled out the keychain Dok had given him. He pressed the button on the door-opener. At once, there was the whirring of machinery heard, and the large barn doors began to open slowly. And then, when they were fully open, the garage lights blinked on one-by-one, automatically, revealing...

...a Mercedes Benz W123 4-door sedan, Model Year 1980. Silver paint job, with leather seating.

 _Huh?_ , thought Marty. There was a blank look of confusion on his face, and his mouth hung open. I mean, don't get me wrong, it's a nice car, but...

"What else were you expecting?" chided Doktor von Braun as his wheelchair appeared, rolling up just behind Marty. "You know I only ever buy 'Made In Germany'."

"Uh... well...," replied Marty, "I was thinking it would be something a little more... you know..."

" _Flashy_?" retorted the Doktor, "ostentatious? Over the top? _Cool_ , as you Americans like to say? Perhaps another one of those roaring, petrol-gulping monstrosities you all seem so fond of as if you all felt the need to compensate for something."

"Yeah... kind of," muttered Marty.

"As long as it drives, that's all that matters to me," replied Doktor, wheeling himself over to the front passenger side. "Fine, enough _Tratsch_." With considerable effort, he reached out his arms, opened the door, and began heaving himself out of his wheelchair and into the seat. He paused for a brief moment to look back at Marty. "What are you waiting for? Don't just stand there! _Wir gehen_!"

Marty snapped out of it and immediately lent a hand to the Dok, getting him seated and stowing away his wheelchair. Rotwang, good boy, had already leapt into the car and was laying down on the backseat, though visibly agitated and growling a little. Marty could hear the gunfire really close now.

Marty darted back round and into the driver's seat, shifted gears, and floored the gas pedal. All five cylinders of the powerful Mercedes-Benz OM617 diesel engine roared to life; tires spun and screeched, and the whole car lunged out of the garage like a hungry beast yearning for freedom... or maybe more accurately (like its occupants) yearning to get away from whatever was just now crashing through the wall of the Wendy's next door. Rotwang barked like mad.

Marty didn't dare stop for even a nanosecond to take a look in the rearview mirror before pulling a hard turn to the right; the sedan drifted around the corner of the house nextdoor, tires _screaming_ along the pavement, and then zipped off down the road, gaining speed.

* * *

 **Cuban Expeditionary Force Headquarters,**  
 **Luanda, People's Republic Of Angola.**

"Latest update from our intel network," said Lt. Carrera as he entered the conference room and plonked a stack of papers down onto the table, "so far, two landings confirmed, one in Cape Town and the other in the Johannesburg region. Unknown number of enemy combatants, but they appear to be the same as those reported everywhere else - mix of some kind of elite heavily armored infantry equipped with tank-grade personal body armor, mixed with lighter human infantrymen, also well armored and equipped with laser-based weaponry. They appear to be Human and not alien, as far as we can tell - we haven't yet had the chance to capture and dissect one, but I think Moscow's working on that. They have vehicles and air support with them. Civilian casualties reported in the hundreds, probably thousands by now. The breakdown in civil order in Joburg seems to have fueled a riot by blacks in Soweto and neighboring districts. Informants have also noted an flurry of activity at the SAAF bases at Waterkloof, Swartkop, and Ysterplaat."

Colonel Ernesto Bella, 6th Army Corps of the Cuban Revolutionary Army, frowned as chomped down hard on his cigar, looking out over the various maps and papers spread out before him. He never really enjoyed smoking all that much, but the bitter taste helped keep him alert and on edge. It was a hot and humid evening, even with a cool breeze gently blowing in from the sea; the barracks were well ventilated and air-conditioned, but still the air was hot and heavy with the smell of tobacco and tension. The rest of Colonel Bella's staff were gathering in the room one by one as the alert had been going out to them. It had been just over an hour since the news had come in from Colonel Ramos's column stationed half the continent away over in Ethiopia had been decimated by a force of green-armored giants.

"And General Ndalu means to... attack at this time?" asked Col. Bella, at long last breaking his silence.

"Yes, señor," replied Carrera, "when I last checked in, maybe half an hour ago, he had the President on the phone. He said he was going to coordinate a strategy. He wants to go on a coordinated offensive by this time next week, with whatever forces are available right now in the south, with plans to raise and equip an additional 10,000 conscripts in the next month."

"And what about SWAPO?" asked Bella, "where do they figure in all of this?"

"No word yet, but he told me he intended to contact General Nujoma and request that they launch multiple, simultaneous, and devastating deep strikes across the Namib, beginning tomorrow and continuing over the next week. Objective presumably to soften the enemy in anticipation of our offensive."

"This is crazy," muttered Bella, "it'll be another, what, six to eight months for any of us to get back up to that level of readiness. 10,000 conscripts in one month, he says? It hasn't even been a year since the last disaster. Does he think I can make fresh troops and equipment just... drop out of the sky, like magic?"

"Evidently, that what he's taking this whole situation to mean," continued Carrera, reproachfully. "I think he's already made it clear he's moving regardless of whatever we have to say on the matter. He's already been dispatching orders to all outposts along the border to begin mobilizing. Officially, it's under the guise of putting the nation on alert in response to all the landings that have been going on around the world, but of course we know who the real target is."

" _Madre de Dios_ ," swore Bella. He reached for the telephone next to him. "I'm going to call General Ndalu, and the President too. I'm sorry, I cannot allow them to pursue this course of action at this time. Not until we know more about these... aliens. For all we know, this could just be the first wave, and there could be additional invasion forces planning to strike at us too next."

* * *

 **Beneath the Ocean.**

The vessel was some kind of submersible craft, the inside of which reminded her of the inside of an Imperial Naval warship, only without a single holographic auspex interface anywhere to be seen. Various pipes and switches and blinking lights and little monitor screens covered the walls of what was clearly the main control room. The crew, too, in their uniforms and their hair-cuts, looked almost like they could have belonged to the Imperial Navy, though she noted many of them wore blue-and-white striped shirts under their dark coats. And all of them looked at her with the same look of curiosity and surprise on their faces as she was brought aboard.

Lt. Miranda Volantis was dragged, her hands in steel handcuffs, down a narrow hallway, away from the command center, and then shoved through one of the doors into a tiny room. It must have been the quarters of one of the superior officers aboard this vessel - simple and stark, but functional. Indeed, maybe a little too plain: the absence of any holy trinkets anywhere throughout the room, or indeed the entire ship, indicated that these men did not honor the Emperor. Miri did, however, note the presence of a certain red pentagram, as well as a crossed golden hammer and sickle shape adorning many of the surfaces, in lieu of the sacred Aquila. These were the same sigils as those she had seen on those rebel aircraft she had battled just hours earlier.

At gunpoint, they forced her to strip down to her naked bare skin, peeling off the layers of her dripping flight-suit and vest. They searched her for any other items she might have had on her person, and confiscated all of her clothing, probably to be searched again. For a moment she lay in the corner and shivered, not just from the cold sea water, but from the fear of what the soldiers guarding her might do next - she'd heard enough horror stories of what would sometimes happen to servicewomen captured by the enemy, _especially_ by the Druchii, but even ordinary Human traitors could be vile enough on their own. She muttered a prayer to the Emperor, hoping for some solace and courage to face whatever was coming next.

To her pleasant surprise, that did not come to pass; one of the men, the one she presumed to be the Captain, entered the room with a fresh bundle of dry clothes under his arm. He said something in a tongue she could not understand, but she presumed he meant to tell her that these were for her. She thanked him back, in Low Gothic though she knew he wouldn't understand her. The new clothing she was given was the same as those the other men were wearing, including that distinctive long-sleeved white-and-blue striped shirt, as well as a heavy and warm black wool longcoat, and a fur hat to top it all off. It was all in a male-cut and didn't fit her precisely, but that was understandable - many worlds throughout the Imperium forbade women serving in the Planetary Defense Forces.

Once she had dressed herself, she looked back at her captors, to try and get a good look at them. The Captain was an older man with grey hair and a beard. The man next to him appeared to be some kind of political officer, though short and ratty-faced and a complete far cry from the heroic men and women of the Imperial Commissariat. There were two other men crammed into the tiny room: the two sailors armed with autoguns, pointing them at her at all times, in case she tried to escape.

The captain and the commissar took their seats at a table in the room, and the latter of them motioned with his hand and said something in his foreign tongue. Miri understood from the gesture what he wanted. She glanced back at the two soldiers, still keeping their guns pointed at her, and obliged.

The captain began. He pulled out of his pocket a piece of paper, and spread it out across the table. It was a map, although Miri could not recognize the shape of the continents nor any of the names written upon it (the strange alphabet they used probably did not help matters).

" _Zemlya_ ," said the Captain, indicating the map.

"Zemlya," repeated Miri, confused. So, that was what the natives called their world? She had to be sure. "Uh, Terra Nova?" she asked.

The two men looked puzzled, and responded; though as usual she could not understand anything they were saying, she thought she could hear what sounded like " _nyet_ " among others.

The Captain persisted, pointing and tapping on a part of the map, indicating one small corner of the map, probably to indicate their location on this planet. Miri rubbed her eyes and blinked. No, it looked absolutely nothing like the maps of Terra Nova they'd been given prior to deployment.

Oh dear. Between the strange tongue they were speaking, and the unfamiliar map... and now all the other bizarre occurrences were starting to make sense. _Emperor damn it, just what have you found yourself in this time, Miri?_ And not just her, but Marklin and Hartmann and all the others too...

The captain turned and shouted an order, and someone outside the room responded. Within minutes, another man had joined them, making the already cramped room even more crowded. Miri wondered who the hell was he for a moment, and then she realized, of course, he was the _other pilot_!

Like she, he too had changed out of his soaking flightsuit and put on some dry clothes. She hadn't taken a good look at his face before now, but there was no question that it was him.

The pilot and the two other officers exchanged several words. The pilot nodded and pulled up a chair to the table. The commissar handed him a piece of paper, and a small writing instrument. The pilot began drawing something on the paper, all the while continuing to speak to the other men. Miri leaned a little closer to get a better look, and realized that he was drawing (or trying to draw) a Valkyrie. Yes, sure, he was getting a lot of details badly off which irked her quite a bit, though then again, he had probably never seen one until tonight.

When he was done, the pilot held the drawing up for the captain and the commissar to inspect carefully, all while continuing to talk to them, no doubt doing his best to describe the details of their battle in the skies. The commissar nodded, and then ordered the pilot to do something. The pilot obeyed, and slid the paper and pen across the table to Miri. The commissar, looking at Miri eye-to-eye, spoke in his language, pointed down at the drawing, and then at her.

Miri nodded in return, and then took the pen in her handcuffed hands. She hesitated for a moment, thinking of what to do next, and knowing that all eyes in the room were on her. And then she put pen to paper and began drawing. She knew just what she was going to do.

Recalling the best she could, she returned the gesture and traced out a rough sketch of the enemy aircraft - the sleek, arrowlike nose, the swept-back delta wings, the twin tailfins... she also decided to add in the little pentagram symbol on the tail.

The commissar abruptly banged the table with his hand and shouted at Miri, red in the face. Clearly, he was not amused at all at her drawing skills. Behind him though, she could see the captain and the pilot were fighting hard not to break out laughing. Considering that she was supposed to be on a planet where the traitorous governor was believed to be consorting with the Ruinous Powers, she supposed she could have ended up far, _far_ worse off in enemy custody.

* * *

 **Malalic punk**  
 _From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia_

 **Malalic punk** is an outgrowth of hardcore punk and anarcho-punk that originated in the late 1980s and early 1990s. It is inspired by the sounds of the Chaos God Malal's realm when the Warp was first opened to the minds of Earth's citizens, as well as the general philosophy of Malal. It is generally mid-tempo, and is partly defined by its downtuned guitars, overdriven and "muddy" bass, gradual and frequent changes in time signature, unpredictable slams and breakdowns, and abrupt, jarring bursts of speed. Lyrics in Malalic punk often espouse a devotion to Malal, describing him as the one god who truly treats his subjects with complete equality and who wishes to free the oppressed from their servitude. As such, Malalic punk musicians advocate the violent destruction of all power structures and the removal of the strictures of society.

Malalic punk is believed to have arisen as a reaction to both World War III and the revelations brought to the world by both the forces of the Imperium Of Mankind, and by the individual known as "The Emperor". As a result of the rising wave of political conservatism that came after these revelations, including the nature of the Warp and the Chaos Gods, many punks decided that simple protest and left-wing idealization was not enough. In response, these punks turned to Malal, the Chaos God of Anarchy and Terror, in whom they saw a sort of kinship due to his unending rebellion against the main Chaos Gods. They embraced his ideology of violently tearing down the institutions believed to exploit and oppress people, especially those who were not in the majority population.

As such, the first Malalic punk bands arose in countries such as the United States (specifically Detroit, Chicago, New York City, and the South), the United Kingdom, South Africa, and Israel, and among groups such as African Americans, Native Americans, LGBT individuals, and Aboriginal Australians. Malalic punk musicians and fans also believe in the concept of "True Chaos," which declares the other Chaos Gods as not truly being _chaotic_ for representing specific, concrete concepts, while Malal (as well as Zuvassin) is considered a god of "True Chaos" for representing concepts that drive a state of pure disorder. This has led to Malalic punks decrying genres such as Tzeentchian rock for tying themselves to the main Chaos Gods, as well as their sound.

Malalic punk is heavily underground, and frequently expresses a vitriolic hatred of the mainstream. Despite the violent beliefs and tendencies of many of its fans and musicians, and the frequent summoning of Malalic daemons at the genre's shows, Malalic punk has gained a certain level of respect by punks of other genres due to its prominently independent and DIY focus. However, many punks have also criticized the genre and its fans for propping up the stereotype of punks being violent anarchists. Though the name was coined in an interview with Black/White, This Eternal Struggle are most often believed to be the progenitors of the genre.

 **See also:**

-Chaos and the arts

-Worship of Malal

-List of Malalic punk bands

-Necohoan punk

-Zuvassindustrial

-Crust punk

* * *

 ** _Super Mario Bros_** **. (1986)**  
 _From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia._

 **Developer(s)** : Nintendo  
 **Director(s)** : Shigeru Miyamoto  
 **Producer(s)** : Shigeru Miyamoto  
 **Designer(s)** : Shigeru Miyamoto and Takashi Tezuka  
 **Composer(s)** : Koji Kondo  
 **Release** : May 23, 1986  
 **Platform** : Arcade; Nintendo Entertainment System

 _Super Mario Bros._ is a 1986 video game released by Japanese electronic entertainment developer Nintendo, that has since gone on to become one of the best-selling and most iconic games of all time. Originally developed as a direct sequel to _Mario Bros._ (1983), the game offers both a single-player mode, where players get to control the titular character Mario, an Italian plumber, as well as a two-player mode where a second player can control Mario's brother, Luigi (who assumes the same plot role and functionality as Mario and otherwise looks exactly the same apart from his color pallet swapping red for green). The objective of the game is for Mario and Luigi to travel into the GRIMDARK future of the 42nd Millennium and rescue Princess Andromeda and her planet of Zebes from the invasion forces of the evil Daemon Prince Ganonroth.

Gameplay largely consists of Mario (and/or Luigi) navigating across the map, left to right, running, jumping from platform to platform, and sometimes using "Warp-pipes" to rapidly navigate some areas of the world and discover secret caches for bonus points. Mario's (and Luigi's) primary attack consists of jumping up into the air and then crushing their enemies from the weight of Mario's (and Luigi's) power armor. Occasionally, the player may pick up "power-ups" spread throughout the map, such as the chainsword (granting an additional attack that doesn't require jumping) or the "Star Child Talisman" that can transform Mario (and Luigi) into _Super Mario_ (and/or _Super Luigi_ ), a super-powered form with enhanced jumping, durability, melee attack, and a new psychic attack that enable them to cast lightning balls at their enemies.

The plot, as revealed in early production notes and concept art, was originally going to revolve around Italian plumbers Mario and his brother Luigi embarking on a quest to save a fantasy-inspired land called "the Mushroom Kingdom" and their leader, "Princess Toadstool", from the clutches of a giant turtle-like villain called "Bowser" and his army of turtle-like minions called "Koopas" as well as living mushroom-like enemies called "Goombas". Thankfully, this ridiculous initial concept never made it past the drawing board (I mean, _Mushroom Kingdom_? Were they on acid when they came up with that idea? Did they _really_ expect such a game to ever catch on and become a hit?).

The game was originally going to be released in Autumn of 1985. However, the sudden outbreak of World War III in Oct 1984 severely disrupted Nintendo's operations, and for a while, the fate of the game and its developer seemed in grave jeopardy. Following the restoration of public order after the Battle Of Tokyo, Nintendo was able to resume operations, although the following recession of the global economy would severely damage the entire video game industry for years to come. Indeed, Nintendo was forced to cut back on many of the other projects they were working on at the time. Nevertheless, production on _Super Mario_ continued, and the plot and game mechanics were modified to take into account new cultural and social changes resulting from World War III.

In the new _Super Mario_ , many elements were taken from other games Nintendo had in early stages of production at the time, including the games that would eventually become _The Legend Of Lileath_ (1987), and _Tyrannoid_ (1988). For example, the main villain, the Chaos Lord Ganonroth, was taken from the concept ideas for the villain of the game that eventually became _Legend Of Lileath_ , while the planet Zebes was originally going to be the name of the villains' home world in _Metroid_ (the working title for _Tyrannoid_ before the plot of the game was changed during production in 1986).

A large part of the _Super Mario Bros_ ' success can be attributed to the simultaneous release of the Nintendo Entertainment System (NES), the first gaming console released in the wake of World War III, as well as the lack of any serious competition at the time (being one of the first games released after the outbreak of the war, while competitors like Sega, Namco, Atari, and ENCOM were also struggling to navigate the wartime video game slump, especially coming on the tails of the American Video Game Crash of 1983). Although the character of Mario had previously appeared in _Donkey Kong_ (1981) and _Mario Bros._ (1983), it would be _Super Mario Bros._ that would be the character's global breakthrough, and help lay the cornerstone of a successful franchise that would include many additional games, spin-offs, and even a _critically acclaimed_ hit movie in 1994 starring famed British actor Sir Robert William Hoskins in the title role and Dennis Hopper as the nefarious Lord Ganonroth.

 **See Also:**

-Mario (character)

-Nintendo Co _._

-Nintendo Entertainment System / NES

-Post-World War III Japan economic recovery

-Effects of World War III on gaming industry

-Third generation of video game consoles (1984 to 1989)


	19. Separate Ways, Worlds Apart

**Chapter XIX:**

 **SEPARATE WAYS, WORLDS APART**

 **Somewhere above State Of Maryland.**

"...by my estimates, we could be looking at, minimum, _two million_ people killed by the end of today alone," said the businesswoman, her voice stern and cold, "to put this in perspective, that's like the Holocaust occurring in the space of a week. And Gods know how many millions more in the coming months. And that's not including tens of millions likely to perish in the various famines, pandemics, civil unrest, popular uprisings, civil wars, environmental disasters, the meltdown of the global economy, and so forth we're almost _certain_ to be seeing over the next year. The nukes may or may not fly, Mr. Vice-President, but they don't have to for this to be a humanitarian crisis the likes of which this world hasn't seen since the end of WW2."

"Yes, I understand Mrs. Kovacs," replied George. He could see her point: by now, they must have run the simulations a million times over about what to do in the event of Mutually Assured Destruction. The initial nuclear exchange, horrific and definitive as it would have been, would only have been the start of a decades-long nightmare to follow. But all of those simulations had been run with a well-known and clearly defined enemy in mind. Whether they trusted the Commie leadership or not, they could at the very least see where on the map the borders were drawn, knew pretty accurately little details like annual military conscription, troop deployments, the capabilities of the various guns, planes, and tanks in the Red arsenal. But this new enemy? These 8-foot _monsters_ who had appeared out of nowhere, clad head-to-toe in tank-grade armor, brandishing infantry firearms that could tear even AFVs apart? They were a great unknown, quite literally _alien_ to anything they could have ever have expected, and as George knew all too well from what he'd seen in WW2, or from even earlier of what his Dad used to tell him about Meuse-Argonne and the war that was supposed to end all wars... it seemed that whenever a war started, people somehow always managed to underestimate just how horrible things could possibly get.

What George couldn't quite understand yet, though, was who the hell was this woman? Where'd she come from? What did she want? How the hell did she make onto the plane, and why was she using a disguise? Why was he the only one who could see through it? Was everyone else... _dumb_? Hopefully, he would have the answers shortly, although he was to be greatly disappointed.

The flight from Philadelphia to Andrews Field was short enough that they were already beginning to make their descent for landing, and George wasn't even done checking the first ten results that Fort Meade had gotten back to him with. He glanced back at the little green words on that tiny black screen.

 _Search term: "ADRIENNE KOVACS"_

 _857 match(es)_

 _Displaying 10 results:_

 _Adrienne A. Kovacs - female. born: 1954. Status: ALIVE. Residence: Los Angeles, California._

 _Adrianne Kovacs - female. b: 1948. Status: ALIVE. Res: Tucson, Arizona._

 _Adrienne Kovacs - female. b: 1939. Status: ALIVE. Res: Toronto, Canada._

 _Adrián Kovács - male. b: 1949. Status: PERSON OF INTEREST - member of Hungarian Commun. Pty. (source: MI6). Res: Budapest, Hungary._

 _Adrian Kovacs - male. b: 1946. Status: DECEASED - killed in car accident, 1979. Res: Gimli, Canada._

 _Adrienne Kovács - female. b. 1951. Status: ALIVE. Res: Utrecht, Netherlands._

 _Adrian Kováč - male. b. 1952. Status: PERSON OF INTEREST - possible defector, must investigate further (source: CIA). Res: Prague, Czechoslovakia._

 _Adrienne M. Kovacs - female. b: 1942. Status: DISAPPEARED - last known sighting 1977; declared dead in absentia 1982. Res: Dunwich, Massachusetts._

 _Adrian F. Kovacs - female. b: 1947. Status: ALIVE. Res: Derry, Maine._

 _Adrienne Kovach - female. b. 1968. Status: DISAPPEARED - last known sighting 1983. Res: Hawkins, Indiana.  
_

 _847 other results..._

This wasn't turning out to be very helpful at all...

"Something wrong, Mr. Vice President?" asked his guest, attentively taking note of his confused look and furrowed brow.

"Oh, yes," snapped George, deciding to cover his covert background check with a half-truth - a trick he'd learned over the years. "My apologies, but important message from DC. Look, I appreciate your concern as a loyal citizen, but something has come up that requires my urgent attention. As you can see, Mrs. Kov... uh, _Ferrero_..." He glanced out of the window and noticed something odd and unexpected. "...we're changing direction. We're, uh, going a separate way..."

Adrienne leaned out of her seat to get a better look, but both of them could feel the entire cabin tilting as Air Force Two banked to the right.

"What's going on?"

At that moment, there was a knock on the door. One of the Secret Service agents entered. "Sir," he began, "new orders from Washington. POTUS has activated COG. Top officials are being dispersed out of the DC area."

"Where are we going?" asked George.

"NORAD, sir," replied the agent, "we'll be making rendezvous with a strato-tanker en route for refueling." The agent then turned to face his guest. "Sorry, Ma'am, but it looks like you'll have to come with us. This is an urgent matter of national security."

"And my family?" asked George, genuine concern in his voice. Barbara was in DC. Doro and Neil and Marv too were also safe. Now, Junior was down in Texas with Laura and the girls, but luckily they were well away from Dallas. But Jeb... he and the family were still in Miami...

"And the President?" asked Adrienne, standing up. The agent, however, refused to answer. Adrienne pushed the issue: "The president - he intends to remain in DC, does he not?"

She was a full head taller than he was. The agent looked up at Adrienne's face, visibly confused. "I'm sorry, ma'am, that's classified information."

"I'll ask again, nicely," said Adrienne, narrowing her eyes. "Is Mr. Reagan intending to remain in Washington, or is he also being evacuated at this moment?"

"I'm sorry Ma'am, that's classified information," replied the agent, now starting to get visibly annoyed. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to cut that tone, Missy, and calm down, or I'm going to have to..." As he spoke these words, George noticed him slowly reaching his right hand down into the folds of his suit jacket, presumably for the pistol holstered there. Not that he intended to threaten to discharge a weapon inside a plane and right in front of the Vice-President, mind you, but probably as a gesture intended to remind the guest who was in authority here.

Adrienne, though, was unfazed. She calmly reached her left hand up, and grasped onto the agent's right wrist. The agent suddenly froze, almost as still as a board. His eyes widened with a mix of shock and fear. George leaned forward, confused by all that was going on. He could see the agent's pupils dilate.

"I'll ask you one last time, Agent... _Nielsen_..." hissed Adrienne between clenched teeth. "Would you kindly reveal the President's location?"

"Y... y... yes," blurted Agent Nielsen, "yes, he's... planning to remain in DC." George noticed Nielsen's speech was broken and forced as if he were making them involuntarily. Nielsen himself continued to look wide-eyed. "He's... hoping his presence there... will calm folks down a little, reassure people we're not about to be nuked by the Reds. He also wants to be seen as... the 'heroic warrior Pres' who never left DC even with the enemy at the gates - you know, like back in the War Of 1812. Sec-Def too, but everyone else is being relocated - the Speaker, Sec-State, Treasury, HUD, hell, even the head of the EPA..."

"Thank you kindly, Agent Nielsen," said Adrienne, releasing her grip on the agent's wrist. Nielsen stumbled backwards several steps. His breathing was strained. She continued: "although you should know, Madison did in fact evacuate the capital after the British victory at Bladensburg and took refuge in Brookeville, Maryland. Luckily for the defenders, the British occupation only lasted 26 hours and a heavy rainstorm doused much of the fires they had set, saving the capital. Maybe you should read up on your American history. I'm only a naturalized citizen and even _I_ know that."

"What is the meaning of this?" demanded George, standing up. "What the hell did you do?"

Adrienne sat back down, calmly, and straightened her long hair. Agent Nielsen just stood where he was, looking confused and bewildered, as if unsure what to do next. "If the President is electing to remain in DC, then that's where we _must_ go," insisted Adrienne, "Mr. Vice President, my humble apologies, but it is imperative that we continue to DC. Please instruct your pilot to revert to the original course."

"This is a direct violation of an order," muttered George, "and we'll be flying dangerously close to an active war zone. There's going to be jets taking off and landing, bombers, civilian jetliners that need somewhere to land, SAMs, cruise missiles, not to mention the enemy's own air support..."

"I understand, but the continued existence of Humanity as we know, or at the very least, of the United States Of America as a cohesive and continuous government, is incumbent upon our immediate return to Washington," said Adrienne. "Besides: wouldn't be the first time you were willing to fly through hostile airspace for your country in a time of war, now would it?"

"You're with... _them_ , aren't you?" accused George. He pushed himself back away from his desk a few inches, as if expecting her to lash out at him at any second. He couldn't help but remember what his Dad had always told him: whether Nazis or Commies, any invasion of America wouldn't start with bombings and beach landings; no, it would start from _within_. He could remember now that movie he used to love watching, _Invasion Of The Body Snatchers_ , about aliens invading that looked just like you or I. He could remember now all those hippies and so-called "progressives", just commies in disguise, who had damn near brought this country to the brink of ruin! Just thinking that all of that could be happening here, now, in real life, sent a shiver down his spine, and made him feel sick to the pit of his stomach.

Adrienne, however, remained calm and collected. "No, I am not. Please, if it helps, I am a U.S. citizen."

"So too were all the traitors and commie sympathizers," seethed George, "you sneak aboard my plane in disguise, you threaten and you lie, you want us to disobey a direct order from the President, and now you expect me to trust _anything_ you have to say?"

"I know where Jeb is," she replied, "he and his wife and their children too. I can assure you, Mr. Vice-President, they're in Miami, but they're safe for now. Miami Beach was hit by a force hellbent on killing everything in their sight, but the force that hit the mainland is... significantly less omnicidal."

"That's enough!" snapped Agent Nielsen, reaching for his gun again, "Sir, stand back, she's an enemy spy! I'll... I'll waste her!"

Adrienne rolled her eyes, mildly annoyed. "Please, I'd rather not have to go through this again. For your sake."

George, however, raised his right hand. Agent Nielsen stopped, and stood down. "No, let her speak. Go on... I... I want to hear the rest of what you have to say."

"Mr. Vice-President, I know we may not have gotten off on the right foot, but I understand this is a trying time for all of us here. Very well. If you're going to trust me, then there's something I have to show you."

* * *

 **Hacienda Del Tony, Hibiscus Island,**  
 **Miami, State Of Florida.**

 _Fffffffuuuuuuuccccccckkkkk_ , thought Tony to himself as he slumped back into his favorite armchair. He needed a break but he knew they couldn't stop, not for one damn minute.

He looked to his left. Two rows of television screens were arranged on a table against the wall; one of them was tuned into CNN, showing live coverage from around the world. Tony couldn't tell what was happening, but it sure as hell looked like WW3 alright, only with... _frickin' lasers_? What the fuck was this, _Star Wars_?

The other TV sets were all wired into the dozen or so security cameras located all around the property. He could see Pablo and the rest of his _hombres_ ; they were rushing back and forth between the main house and the waterfront, hauling out duffelbags filled with... you know, everything you need to survive the Apocalypse. He could see Ramon, who was standing out on the dock, unrolling a fuel line and dragging it out to where the _Mar Del Plata_ was berthed. Honestly, though, even with full tanks, they probably wouldn't have enough to make it to Mexico like he'd originally thought - the Bahamas maybe. Still, that seemed far enough to get away from this place and quietly sit out the Apocalypse. Who the hell would attack Nassau?

"Tony..." gasped Daisy.

Tony looked to his right, to see Daisy lying there, stretched across his king-sized bed, the expensive white silk sheets now stained a deep crimson. Lance was standing over her, the first aid kit open by his side, doing the best he could to redo the dressing on her wounds now that they had proper bandages to use; the bloody rags of Tony's jacket and shirt lay in a heap at the foot of the bed. It had proved impossible to do this on the boat, what with the waves rocking it back and forth, so they'd brought her up here to see if they could do more to fix her up - there was no telling how long it would be before they could find a proper doctor.

"Tony..." whimpered Daisy, again, and she tried to lift her head up from the pillows, though Lance gently stopped her and pushed her back down. There were tears in her eyes, "...I'm... I'm gonna die... yes?"

Tony knelt down beside her. "Ssshhh... calm down. Hey, baby, it's gonna be alright," he said, reassuringly. He placed a hand on her cheek. " _Comprende?_ You're gonna be just fine. Lance, tell her she gonna be fine!"

"I dunno man," muttered Lance, "look, I ain't no doctor and..."

Tony elbowed Lance in the back of his neck. Lance continued: "...but, uh, yeah, I've patched up guys worse than this. Hey, don't worry Daisy! You're in good hands."

Daisy smiled feebly. Tony gently wiped the beads of sweat from her forehead. It took everything he had not to break down into tears himself at the sight of her, his beautiful Daisy, who'd once been the belle of the ball at that party on Honest Juan's yacht a couple years back, where they'd first met. Now, she was a wreck of a person, deep cuts in her beautiful face and breasts and belly where the shrapnel had hit her. Maybe if she'd been wearing more than a bikini, her clothes woulda protected her from some of the shrapnel and she wouldn't have gotten cut up so badly. Or maybe if Misty hadn't been such a _stupid bitch_ and gotten all freaked out like she did, they coulda left the marina earlier... oh, if only, if only. But beneath it all, Daisy was still an angel in his eyes.

Tony glanced back to look back at the security cam live feed, to check on the progress the boys down below were making. Maybe another half hour and they'd be good to go. He looked back at his bed. No, no way. Not with Daisy in this state. No, better not to rush Lance. But every minute they were still here was another minute those... _things_ , whatever they were, could be getting closer. Tony turned around to check the video feeds again, growing impatient. That's when he noticed something.

" _Madre De Dios_..." he swore. There were men - _other_ men - converging on the front gate. He quickly reached for a walkie-talkie he kept on his desk. He clicked it on and shouted: "Hey! Heads-up, we got company! Front gate!"

On one of the screens, he could see Sonny carrying a duffelbag loaded with coke out by the poolside. Sonny must've heard the alert, for a second later, he dropped the bag, pulled out his gun, and ran for cover. On another screen, he could see the Ramon dashing into the boathouse to take shelter - there were extra guns and ammo being stored there for an emergency like this. On yet another screen, he could see Pablo emerging from inside the yacht's cabin, an M16 rifle in his hands.

"Tony?" muttered Lance, glancing up and seeing the security cam live feed. "Oh, shit!"

Tony ignored him, but instead had gotten to work. Behind his desk, there was a large, heavy locked chest, where he kept... _Lorena_.

" _Perdóname padre, porque he pecado_..." muttered Tony over and over to himself as he knelt down and unlocked the chest. His hands were trembling and he fumbled a little with the keys.

 _Lorena_ was there alright, oiled and polished, as glistening clean as she was the day he'd first bought her. She was custom-made by some arms dealer based in the Philippines, made using, ahem, "U.S. Army surplus" salvaged and smuggled out of Saigon after the war - the whole of Southeast Asia was a veritable goldmine for aftermarket guns where you could find everything to your heart's content: American, Russian, Chinese, and of course the locally made stuff too, some of which was actually pretty good. But the minute Tony had first laid eyes on _Lorena_ in Honest Juan's warehouse, he knew he absolutely _had_ to have her, no matter the price. Well, today was the day to see if he'd made a wise purchase.

Tony groaned and the chest creaked loudly as he heaved the massive weapon out. He was a pretty big man himself with wide shoulders, and even then, _Lorena_ was a bitch-and-a-half to carry, though, I guess, nowhere near the bitch Misty had been. The ammunition alone had to be carried in a frickin' _backpack_ , which he pulled out separately. He laid the heavy gun down on his desk and took a minute to catch his breath; the polished hardwood surface of his desk warped and cracked under the tremendous weight of _Lorena_ 's six barrels.

"Lance, _mi hermano_ ," said Tony as he turned back to look at the others. "If I... if I... d..." He was struggling to say the word "die" - he'd seen it a lot in his life, but over the last couple of years, as his power and wealth had grown immensely, so too had his complacency and arrogance, and at some point he'd started to see himself as immortal, like a god among men, never once imagining that death would come to him. He took a deep breath. "Lance, listen. If I go down... you know what to do, right?" He reached down into his pocket.

"I know," interrupted Lance. He patted his belt, where he kept his own gun holstered. "I'll... I'll keep three rounds spare. I promise you... they... those fuckers won't take us alive."

"What? No, not like that, _pendejo_!" scolded Tony. He pulled his car keys from his pocket and tossed them over to Lance, who caught them midair. "What I meant is this: look, I keep the two Lambos in the garage out back. Take the red one, it goes faster. And yes, I don't fuckin' care if you scratch it, just promise me that I go down, you and the girls put as many miles between you and this place, _comprende_?"

"Tony..." moaned Daisy, "...where... where are...?"

"Hey, don't worry, _mi bonita_ ," said Tony. He smiled, trying his damnedest not to show the fact that this could very well be the last time he ever saw them. He winked. "Nobody's ever gotten the better of _Tony_ before, have they?"

And with that, he was off - kind of. Oh God, _Lorena_ was heavy _as fuck_ ; the backpack straps dug painfully into his shoulders, and Tony half-stumbled from the sheer weight. He could barely make it through the wide mahogany doors of his own bedroom. Yes, "Tony's Last Stand" sure was off to a fine start, wasn't it.

Tony leaned back against the wall to catch his breath. Outside, he could already hear the sound of gunfire and shouting, even an explosion from a grenade going off. He calmly reached into his pocket, pulled out the little pen-sized container he kept with his wallet, and unscrewed the top. He gently held it up to his nose, and inhaled deeply. The effect was immediate.

"ALRIGHT, YOU FUCKHEADS!" roared Tony, as he stomped down the hall, like some berserker warrior out of a bygone era, waving Lorena like it was a child's water gun. "LET'S SEE WHAT YOU'RE MADE OF! COME N' GET ME, ASSHOLES! RRRRAAAAWWWRRRR!"

* * *

 **Not Too Far Away...**

Nothing had gone right since they'd landed on this ruddy planet. Instead of hitting a major weapons installation like they were told, instead they'd landed at the assigned coordinates and found... this place.

Capt. Hannibal Steele looked around him as he briskly moved from cover to cover, darting between the palm trees and the parked vehicles. He turned and looked at Sgt. Drebin and several other Warhawks, who were coming up behind him, and made a hand signal to them. Drebin nodded, and crouched down, ready to provide covering fire. Steele then turned and dashed out from cover, out across the street. Mid-way through the run, he leapt upon onto the top of one of the vehicles, then leapt again into the air, and activated his jump-pack.

The jets roared to life, if briefly, sending Steele arcing up into the air and landing onto the roof of the next building, 20 feet above the ground. It was a white-washed structure, its walls coated in white plaster and its roof made from red clay tiles. One of the tiles dislodged and fell to the ground as Steele landed, but he quickly righted himself, and then took point. From here, he had a good vantage point to survey the area around him.

This island was undoubtedly a housing estate dedicated to this city's governing elite. To his west, the spires of the downtown area on the mainland reached up to the sky, albeit modest constructions compared to the tower-cities of his native Harakon. Another built-up area lay to the east, on an island running parallel to the mainland, a lagoon in between. From the air, they had spied a number of long causeways and bridges connecting the two tracts of land, a number of islands as well.

None of this had been any part of the target area they had studied during briefing; this was the first sign something had gone terribly wrong. But Commissar Welker had insisted on moving ahead with the drop, following their orders down to the tee, and so they had gone ahead and made the drop. With the downtown secured easily enough, they had determined that the next priority should be to secure the strategic bridges connecting the mainland with all the islands.

The whole area was pleasant, warm, and colorful - even after several hours of battle. Thus far, they had encountered absolutely none of the armed resistance they had been expecting, though that still hadn't stopped the Templars shooting up damn near everything that moved the very nano-second they'd put their feet to ground.

Then again, though, the fact remained that they hadn't had contact with the fleet since that... Warp anomaly that Lt. Gallard had reported.

And to top it all off, his company co-commander, 1st Lt. Tazerphaez, had radio'ed in that he and the two platoons under his command, who had all been flying formation by their side just before they'd entered atmosphere, had now all of a sudden appeared to have landed completely _on the other side of the damn planet_ , in some city the natives called... _Dad's Bag_? _Bag-of-Dad_? _Bad-Dad_? Something like that. From the sound of it, that city seemed a lot more heavily militarized than this one, sounded like a far more appropriate target to search for the weapons of mass destruction they were supposed to be securing.

The only conclusion Steele could think of was that they had landed on completely the wrong planet.

Never in his years in the Guard had Steele ever witnessed a situation so bizarre as that which now faced him, and for a Veteran Warhawk of 10 years, that was truly saying something. And they weren't the only unit having problems. Oh, someone was going to pay _dearly_ for this when all was said and done. He imagined that a few executions for gross incompetence might even be in order, and quietly thanked the Emperor that the Departmento Munitorum's wrath would fall mainly on the higher-ups running this operation and not on the frontline grunts like him.

Still, the mission stays the same - at least so sayeth the goodly Commissar. In lieu of any weapons cache, their next objective was to track down any local leaders, and promptly bring them into Imperial custody.

The mansion up ahead looked just right. It was clearly the largest and most opulent dwelling on this entire island; the sprawling four-storey palace with plastered walls and tile roofs. The lone roadway that branched off from the main street up to front of the building was lined with cypresses and palm trees.

"Looks like this is it," commanded Steele into his vox-piece. He held up his lasgun and trained his scope in on the front of the complex. "Armed men gathering outside. Looks more like a local militia posse than a proper Planetary Defense Force; no armor or uniforms, but lots of autoguns. Grenades too. I'll take point here and pin them with covering fire. Skirmish line! Drebin, you sweep right, Kelso, sweep left! The entryway looks like a chokepoint, so Drebin, see if you can find a side-entrance. Clear? Alright, for the Empra, let's move, move, move!"

* * *

 **Somewhere outside Washington D.C.**  
 **Exact location CLASSIFIED.**

"How much longer?" asked Senator Strom Thurmond, getting impatient. At that very moment, he was sitting in the backseat of the Cadillac sedan. The driver, a Secret Service agent, informed him that the chopper would be arriving to pick him up and fly him off to a secure location any minute now, though he still kept the engine running just in case. Meanwhile, outside, four other agents were out and about, patrolling the clearing in the woods, making sure the area was secure. Two of them had ridden in the same car with the Senator, and the other two had driven ahead of them in the pilot car.

As the most senior member of the Senate, Strom was thus _President pro tempore_ of the Senate, and 3rd in line to the Presidency - after Veep, and that fat bleeding-hearted whale, Tip. Usually, this was a largely ceremonial title of absolutely no other significance. But today was different. America was under attack by an enemy the likes of which they could never have before imagined. The Reds? Sure. Filthy pinko hippies and rioting Negros? Back in the good ol' days, they knew how to keep those subversives in their place and God willing, they'd see those days again. But this? He thought he'd been to hell and back in Normandy, but just based on what little intel he'd been given, these aliens were on a whole other level entirely.

Ronny himself had elected to remain in the White House - a bold move, even with a large enemy force landing in Virginia. Strom had to applaud him for that. But everyone else was being evacuated in preparation for a worst case scenario. As far as he knew, Veep was in Philly right now but would probably be sent to Raven Rock. Tip would probably get Cheyenne Mountain. Strom didn't know where he himself would be going, but there were four "Nightwatch" jumbo jets on standby; he would probably get one to himself. He wondered for a moment, somewhat hopefully, that maybe they'd send him back down to his sweet home South Carolina - Forts Jackson and McEntire were both located in Columbia and had underground facilities suited for an emergency like this.

There was a rustling in the bushes right at the edge of the clearing.

"Be advised, we've got an unidentified person, five o'clock!" shouted one of the agents. He immediately reached into the folds of his suit jacket and pulled out his service pistol. The three others immediately followed suit.

"Who goes there?" shouted the lead agent, the one in the tan-colored suit. "Identify yourself!"

The bushes continued to shake. The agents trained their guns. And then, something emerged. Strom blinked.

It was a little girl. She looked to be maybe 11 at most; she was wearing what looked like a bizarre mix of a nightgown, a baseball cap, and neon-colored sneakers. In his 80-odd years, Strom had seen some pretty radical changes in what young folks found "fashionable", but this looked downright bizarre - it was as if you'd taken a little girl from the turn o' the century and dropped her down here, right now, and told her to try and dress up like whatever it was damn kids these days were wearin'.

The agents looked confused. "It's a, uh, kid," remarked the one in the tan suit.

"All by herself in the woods? In the middle of a war?" remarked the second agent, suspiciously.

"Right," replied the tan-suited agent. He looked down at the child, who looked back up at him, a confused look on her face. "Please identify yourself."

The little girl said nothing for a moment.

"Your mom around here somewhere?" continued the tan-suited agent, "because I'm going to have to ask to move yourself away from this... _AAARRRGGGGHHHH_!"

The little girl hissed, and something struck the agent right in the chest, unseen but with enough force that blood spurted out of both front and back, and the agent was lifted several feet into the air and just seemed to hover there, his eyes wide with shock and agony.

"Holy shit, OPEN FIRE!" shouted one of the other agents, the one in the black suit.

The three remaining agents opened up at the girl, a vicious stream of semi-automatic 9mm rounds striking her little body.

What happened next was... unlike anything Strom had ever seen before. The bullets seemed to have no effect on the girl, leaving sparks where they struck her. However, they did seem to have some effect, seeing as the girl's body began to twist and warp before their very eyes.

Standing in the small child's place was... it was a Human-like figure, tall and imposing, maybe 8ft in height. At first glance it looked like a slender female bod wrapped in skintight black leather, its blackness broken only by a white skull symbol adorning its waist, and two terrible red glowing eyes on an otherwise unmoving, skull-like face. A single, long braid of golden hair ran from the back of its head and down to its ankles, fluttering in the breeze. In its right hand it grasped what looked like a frickin' sword, that had cleanly skewered the agent's body and that the being was now using to hold the agent's limp body aloft. In its left hand it carried what looked like an oversized, boxy pistol of some kind. The being just stood there, completely unfazed by the bullets smacking its body.

The driver immediately put the Cadillac in gear and floored the gas pedal. The engine groaned, and the car sped off. Strom, however, took a glance out the rear window to try and get a better look at what was going on. The three remaining agents just stood there in the clearing, continuing to unload their pistols at the target. The unknown assailant pointed its own gun and returned fire; a blast of green lightning came shooting out and struck the nearest agent. The agent dropped to his knees, spasming violently as blood came pouring out of his eyes, ears, and nose. Strom couldn't bear the sight of it, and so turned away.

Above the roar of the car's engine and the frantic pounding of his own heart, he could now hear the steady **_thwump-thwump-thwump_** of helicopter rotor blades in the distance, rapidly approaching them.

"This is Stagecoach Four!" shouted the driver into the car's radio, his face white with fear, "aborting pickup, we were... attacked by... uh, something!"

"This is Marine Four," replied the radio, "copy. IR's picking up a thermal sig, just a hundred yards behind you. It looks like... a small child?"

"That's it! Him! Her! Whatever, just kill it!"

"Roger that," replied the radio, "alright boys, light 'em up!"

Above him, through the sedan's skylight, Strom could see the helicopter, a Sikorsky Sea-King in USMC livery, swooping low over the treeline. As they passed right under it, he could see the side-door swung open, and a .50-cal machine gun emerge from within, and for a split second, he could even see the fearful but determined face of the Marine behind it.

"Sir, eyes on the target!"

"Fire!"

All hell broke loose as spent bullet casings rained down all around the Cadillac from above. For a moment, Strom thought they were clear, and breathed a sigh of relief and muttered a prayer of thanks.

And then there was an explosion behind them.

He turned around just in time to see the helicopter aflame, crashing down towards the ground in a great ball of fire.

 _ **CRASH**_.

Something hit the sedan, hard, causing it to veer off the road, and the very last thing to go through the Senator's mind was thinking of his dear home back in South Carolina; of his wife and the kids, his grandkids, hell, even that mulato daughter he'd had with that Negro serving wench, back in the good ol' days.

* * *

 **NORAD, Cheyenne Mountain,**  
 **Near Colorado Springs,** **State Of Colorado.**

"Who are these guys?" demanded General Berenger as he stomped down the hallway, sullen and angry.

"Sir, these are the two experts we could scrounge together on such short notice," replied Lt. Phelps, struggling to juggle the multiple files and folders he was carrying while keeping up with the General's brisk pace. "We though they might help explain what's going on."

"No, I know that, I meant _who_ are these guys? What do they do for a living?"

"Uh, right, well, see..." said Lt. Phelps, checking the files he was carrying, "first we have Dr. Matthew Bremer, Deparment Of Energy."

"Really?" muttered Gen. Berenger, "what does he do? Design light bulbs?"

"He used to work for the DOE, Montauk Point National Laboratory, for the last 7 years before they had him transferred here about 6 months ago," answered Phelps, reading through the open file, carefully balanced atop the rest of the items he was carrying. "He's been working under Col. O'Neal's division since then, Applied Sciences and such."

"How come I've never met him?" asked the General, incredulous.

"A lot of what they're working on down in Applied Sciences is pretty hush-hush," shrugged Phelps, "only the heads over at DARPA are privy to all of what's really going on. I only found out about Bremer too, when they sent me his contact details."

"God I hate all these damn secrets," grumbled Berenger, "and who's the other guy?"

"Dr. Yuri Gellar," continued Phelps, checking the file. "Columbia University. Lives in New York, parents were Holocaust survivors. For some reason, he's never wanted to come work for us before, so it took a little, ahem, _coaxing_."

"Wait a minute, so you flew in an expert all the way from New York on such short notice? At _gunpoint_? It's only been, what, three hours since this whole damn thing began."

"Not exactly, sir," mumbled Phelps, trying to adjust his glasses, "as luck would have it, Dr. Gellar was here in the Springs, attending some big science convention. But, yeah, it took a little _convincing_ to bring him out here."

"What kind of convention?" asked the general, "and why would they be holding it _here_ of all places?"

"I dunno, maybe it's something to do with the fact Nikola Tesla used to live here."

"Nichole... who?" barked the General.

"Tesla," said Phelps, "he's some famous scientist guy, like Einstein or Edison."

"Right, whatever, go on about Mr. Gellar here."

"Gellar's been on our radar for some time now. He's a little... eccentric. Brilliant physicist who spends all his free time reading about paranormal stuff, Hinduism, evolutionary genetics, conspiracy theories, the collected works of Oswald Spengler - yeah, you should check out his records from the NY Public Library, definitely some weird stuff there! Last year, he acquired an old firehouse somewhere in Manhattan, now he runs the place together with several other associates of his as some kind of secret laboratory. Oh, and he owns, like, three dozen cats. The FBI have been watching him as a person of interest for the last few months, suspect he's up to no good in that lab of his."

"So you thought _he_ was the best expert to bring in?" fumed the General, raising an eyebrow.

"He was in town, sir. That, and he has some... unconventional ideas that might, uh... it's hard to explain, you'll have to ask him yourself."

A few minutes later, General Berenger entered the interrogation room. One of the two men sitting inside stood up and saluted; the other remained seated. Not that Berenger was surprised in the slightest. He took a moment to size them up.

Dr. Matthew Bremer was in his late fifties, with a plain face and hair and wide mustache considerably greyed; he was sharply dressed in an impeccable shirt and tie, polished leather shoes, and a spotless white lab coat. Dr. Yuri Gellar was something else entirely. His hair was slicked up in a pompadour style; he was in his thirties but looked to be considerably older thanks to his glasses, and the tweed suit and tie that looked better suited to Oxford or Cambridge in the 70's - the _18_ 70's that is.

"Gentlemen," began the General, "I suppose you were both briefed on the way here?" They both looked that same three-way mix of confusion, shock, and annoyance about all that was going on as he had, but they nodded. He continued: "Then let's get down to brass tacks then. Approximately 3 hours ago, _Challenger_ reported an anomaly appear within close visual proximity of the craft. We have since lost contact with the crew and they are presumed lost. We acquired _this_."

He placed on the table a Xerox-copy of the telefax they'd received from NASA earlier. The two scientists leaned in for a closer look.

General Berenger continued: "this photograph was taken by _Challenger_ , Mission Specialist Kathryn Sullivan at exactly 1200hr - noon, EST, just prior to when we lost contact with them. Our satellite data shows that similar phenomena occurred at no less than sixty, and possibly many more we have yet to confirm, other locations around the Earth, all at the same time. All of these locations have coincided with at least one landing site across the globe. The largest anomalies have appeared above where we have seen the largest concentrations of hostile aliens arriving in force, such as Virginia, England, and Moscow. These landings are not random; barring one or two exceptions, most of them seem to be targeting major cities, capitals, military centers, or other culturally significant targets."

The General concluded by placing another sheet of paper on the table, this time, a print-out of a world map, complete with red crosses demarcating each confirmed landing site (and several suspected ones), and red circles where each anomaly roughly appeared. There was an almost perfect correlation between the two.

The two scientists sat there, studying the map and the photograph side by side. After a few minutes, Dr. Bremer was the first to speak: "General, I believe that, based on all the available info, we might be dealing with Humans from a parallel universe."

"You mean like in _Cosmos_?" piped up Phelps, "with Carl Sagan?"

"Exactly," said Bremer, "so, for example, there could be a universe that's just like ours, but where none of this ever happened. Who knows, there might even be a universe out there where _Star Wars_ is real. I believe these invaders may have originated in a universe also populated by Humans, but where technology, language, and society may have evolved along radically different lines than in our world."

"Sounds like you're rather familiar with parallel dimensions," observed Dr. Gellar.

Dr. Bremer ignored Gellar and pressed on. He held up the picture of the space-time rift, and calmly pulled a pen out of his pocket. "General, imagine if you will, that _our_ entire universe, all dimensions of it, were represented as a flat, 2-dimensional side of this paper. Now imagine if _their_ universe were also represented as a 2d shape, as the other side of this piece of paper. With enough energy, one might be able to open a tear in space-time..." He pushed his pen right through the paper, ripping open a small hole. "Given the sheer amount of energy needed to accomplish this task, we must be dealing with a civilization ranking highly on the Kardeshev Scale."

"The what?" asked the General.

"It's named after some Soviet scientist. But point is, these beings come from a civilization able to not only create artificial wormholes, but to do so with sufficient frequency, reliability, and accuracy to make them practicable tools of warfare."

"So how do we fight them?"

"The good news it seems is that no matter how advanced they are, they still appear to be Human for the most part," said Bremer, "I think the far more pressing question is whether there are more of them on the way, and how do we learn to detect and prepare for future attacks. Maybe even _retaliate_ , in the long term, as well as potentially open up new worlds for resource extraction, colonization, and, of course, spreading freedom, justice, the American way..."

"Something DARPA has been working on for a while, no doubt," chided Gellar, "the legacy of Dr. Von Braun's work perhaps?"

"No comment," replied Bremer.

"No comment?" snapped the General, "what kind of answer is that? A simple yes or no will do." When Dr. Bremer refused to say anything else, the General continued: "is there something going on downstairs I should know about?"

"My apologies, General, but that's strictly on a need-to-know basis," replied Bremer. "You'll have to go through the proper channels."

The General glared at Dr. Bremer, but also knew that now was not the time for a jurisdiction catfight between the Air Force and DARPA. "I'll deal with you later," he growled, and then turned to face the other scientist. "So what's your story?"

"Well General, with all due respect, it's a little complicated and you might not believe it..."

"Try me, Doctor."

"Right," said Gellar, taking a moment to adjust his glasses, "well, see, while Dr. Bremer here and his buddies have been busy spending whatever taxpayer dollars we're not already spending on more nukes on trying to make gateways to other dimensions, I too have been carrying out my own independent research into this... uh, for purposes of my studies, I call it 'Warp-Space', though my colleagues prefer to call it names like the 'space between spaces' or 'the Vale Of Shadows'..."

"Hey," smiled Phelps, "I got that last one!"

Gellar continued: "I don't believe this is the first time our world and theirs have crossed paths. I have reason to believe that our worlds have made contact in the past, and that these contacts have influenced the evolution of our world, whether through genetics or through memetics."

"Meme... what?"

" _The Selfish Gene_ , Richard Dawkins," said Gellar, "it's a good book, you should check it out. But basically, what I'm saying is that the recollections of early humans of contacts between our world and theirs may have inspired everything - the Bible, the Vedas, the works of Homer, Nazi occultism..." Dr. Gellar paused to pull a notebook out of his leather satchel. "...which is why I've dedicated my life to trying to come up with a means of detecting and identifying new linkages as they crop up, and understanding the fundamental patterns and causes behind them."

Gellar opened the notebook. "I may not have the resources DARPA has at its disposal, but there are cheaper work-arounds. Every time our world comes into contact with Warp-Space, it produces disturbances in our world - gravity, electromagnetic fields, the local environment. Even certain animals can sense it."

"That explains the cats," whispered Phelps, reading through the FBI's dossier on the doctor.

"Right before your thugs showed up at my hotel and dragged me out here, I got a telephone call from my colleagues," continued Gellar, consulting his notes, "it looked like years of work paid off; we were able to detect and pinpoint the exact locations of all of the anomalies occurring within 75 degrees, latitude and longitude, of our New York base." He compared the coordinates jotted down in his notebook with the map the General had given him. "Look, see? Almost an exact match. The only one missing, the only one your satellites didn't spot, was this one, here, which our estimates place somewhere in Delaware..."

"Philadelphia, actually," piped up Bremer. The General and Gellar stared at him. Bremer shrugged. "What, you think I'll just sit here and let this guy take all the credit?"

"What happened to 'need to know' basis?" asked Gellar, sarcastically.

"You know, I think I'm starting to come around to the idea that this might be a situation that requires _my_ expertise," smirked Bremer. "No, Mr. Gellar, you've done a fantastic job with what few resources you have, but I think _we_ can do better."

Gellar was fuming, but General Berenger didn't care; if appealing to the doc's ego was what it took to get his cooperation, so be it. Bremer calmly pulled out and opened his own notebook (which, the General noted, was sleeker, shinier, and more organized than Gellar's) before continuing. "Yes, we believe we may have detected _two_ additional anomalies. One of them is in Philadelphia."

"Shit, they've hit Philly too?" asked Phelps.

"No, not as far as I can discern," said Bremer, "the anomaly we detected there seems drastically different from the others - different radiation signatures, located at ground level rather than up in the thermosphere..."

"Wait a minute," interjected General Berenger, "Veep's in Philly... or at least he was when all this crap started. He's supposed to be on his way here right now. LT! What's the latest on Air Force Two? Current whereabouts? ETA?"

"I don't know sir, I..." stammered Phelps.

"Well don't just stand there!" barked the General, "quit your yammerin' and find out!"

"Yes, sir," saluted Phelps, who then turned and half-stumbled, half-marched out of the conference room.

The General turned back to face the two scientists. "You mentioned one other smaller level anomaly you detected somewhere on the planet."

"Yes, I did," replied Bremer.

"Where is it?"

"It's much further away, so we're still trying to triangulate the exact origin point. Best we could tell, it seemed to originate somewhere in the general area of the South China Sea."

"They hit Hong Kong and Manila too," muttered the General, "could this anomaly be related to any of those two landings?"

"Hard to say."

"We'd better notify our allies then," murmured the General. "I know the Brits have their hands tied right now with London, but maybe they have an agent in Hong Kong they can send out to investigate."

"What about the Chinese?" asked Dr. Gellar, "they're our allies too now."

"Against the Ruskies, sure, but I wouldn't trust them with this valuable intel."

"No, General," replied Dr. Gellar, standing up, "for better or worse, _every_ nation on Earth is now in this fight together. We need to be open and honest here, with each other and with our allies, and yes, that includes the Russians and the Chinese too. Keeping secrets gets people killed." He looked coldly at Dr. Bremer, who only sat back, his arms crossed.

* * *

 _ **Writer's Notes:**_

 _COG (Continuity Of Government) is the protocol the US government uses to ensure that leadership will continue in the event of a national disaster. The exact line of succession to the President has changed around a bit (particularly post 9/11), but generally, it goes: the Vice President is next in line (George Bush in 1984), then the Speaker Of The House (Thomas "Tip" O'Neill), then the President pro tempore (the senior-most member of the majority party in the Senate - in this case, Senator Strom Thurmond, who was also infamous for being an old-time, pro-Segregation Southerner, who opposed the Civil Rights Movement and also once fathered a child with a black household servant)._

 _Everyone here has probably heard of Air Force One. What everyone here may not have heard of is the National Airborne Operations Center, or "Nightwatch": these are 4 specially modified Boeing 747s that are used as airborne command centers for the President and other high-level cabinet offices in the event of nuclear war. These planes were introduced in 1979 and are still in use today.  
_

 _The word "meme" was invented by Richard Dawkins in "The Selfish Gene", 1976. Of course, Dawkins probably intended that it to have a very different meaning from what most people think of today._


	20. One Night In Hong Kong

_**Writer's Notes:** this is a chapter that finally introduces (and for real this time and not as a joke) a character that many readers have been eagerly waiting for. Just so readers are warned ahead of time, I decided to go in a unique direction that is probably very different than what many were expecting. Which means this chapter could either be great, or it could be an abominable heresy in need of being purged. Either way, the only way to find out is to read on. _

* * *

**Chapter XX:  
**

 **ONE NIGHT IN HONG KONG  
**

 **Chungking Mansions,**  
 **Tsim Sha Tsui, Kowloon,**  
 **British Dependent Territory Of Hong Kong.**  
 **Midnight, Oct 11-12, 1984.**

Even though it was almost midnight, the narrow streets were alive and crowded. Above, streetlights and neon signs and advertisements buzzed, while below, numerous food-carts and street kitchens hissed and steamed and motor-scooters darted back and forth between traffic of both the vehicular and human type. The beats and thumps from a discotheque across the street, playing the latest hits from the West, drowned out the warm, pleasant (if a little scratchy) melodies of Sandra Lang's voice from Uncle Guo's phonograph at the end of the bar.

At that moment, Guo could be found leaning on the bar, counting up the day's earnings, feeling hot, sweaty, and nervous - the only respite was the cool downward breeze from the lonely ceiling fan above him. Despite the noise coming from outside, the restaurant inside was mostly empty and quiet; tonight, he had promised his staff that they would be closing early, at midnight sharp. They had worked very hard this last week and they all deserved a break; besides, he needed them well rested for the weekend rush.

Only Xiuying was left; he could see her approaching, carrying several dirty dishes and bowls stacked high - she was wearing a flowery blouse and denim skirt, with her long, silky hair in a ponytail. Xiuying was the youngest member of the team, a third his age, and had been working for Uncle Guo for just over a month now. Some of her, ahem, mannerisms Guo disapproved of highly, but she worked as hard as any of the boys. That, and patrons were usually a little more willing to tip on the nights she was working.

"Just so ya know, we've got one more customer left," whispered Xiuying as she plonked the pile of plates down in the sink behind the bar, "check out that _Gweilo_ over there!"

Uncle Guo's dining establishment was not very large (floorspace in this town and _especially_ here in Chungking Mansions was at a premium), but the dim lighting made it hard to see the other end of the room - Xiuying had been turning off the lights one by one as they neared closing time. At the furthest corner from the bar, there sat a lone foreigner whom Guo almost hadn't noticed. He looked to be maybe in his early thirties at most, with a thick mop of untidy black hair, and long sideburns. He was wearing a grey turtleneck, jeans, and a khaki-colored jacket with wide lapels on top - his whole get-up would have been pretty fashionable... like maybe 10 years ago (not that Uncle Guo minded at all, mind you - his own was maybe 30 years out-of-style compared to what kids these days were wearing).

Ah yes, Guo could remember him now; this _Gweilo_ had wandered in, what, maybe two or three hours earlier? And all he'd done in that time was just sit there, his elbows on the table and his head in his hands, staring at his food, despondently. He'd ordered two or three dishes and a beer and hadn't even touched any of them. His food must have been cold by now - a shame to let good _zongzi_ go to waste, especially this out-of-season. Guo scowled a little. Ah well, as long as he'd paid for it.

"He looks sad," observed Guo, "please tell me he didn't find an eyeball in the soup or something."

"He looks kinda cute though," said Xiuying, dreamily, "and he tips generously."

"And you have a boyfriend," muttered Guo, raising an eyebrow.

"Hasn't stopped me before," she winked. She undid the top button on her blouse. "Maybe his girlfriend dumped him."

Uncle Guo rolled his eyes. "Look, whatever it takes to get him outta here. Jeez, just looking at him right now is making me feel depressed."

Xiuying nodded and went back out into the main restaurant space to continue clearing up the tables, particularly those right around where their wayward guest was sitting. Guo noticed a slight, sultry sway in the way she carried herself in front of him. Guo sighed. Gathering up all the money in his little metal lockable box, he turned and strode through the doors behind him, into the backroom.

It was separate from both the main space and the kitchen, and used as a combination of a storeroom as well as Guo's own office. The only other way in or out, apart from the window, was the door at the other end of the room which also opened onto the hallway, though he always kept this door locked and bolted; he preferred everyone, customers and staff too, use the main entrance, you know, so he could keep an eye on everything going in and out. Guo sighed and sat down at his desk; he took a moment to take off his glasses and wipe the sweat off his brow.

Just then, something slammed into the backdoor, with such force that the lock snapped off, it swung wide open and banged hard against the wall.

 _What the...?!_ though Guo, startled. He dropped his glasses to the floor.

"Well, well, _well_ ," sneered the man standing in the open doorway. He strolled into the backroom, followed close behind by several others. "If it ain't Old Man Guo. Sorry for this courtesy call, but... you know, Lan Di hasn't heard anything from you for a couple months now. He's beginning to think you'd forgotten 'bout us."

Guo was sweating, but he did his best to keep his cool. "Uh... sorry, do I know you?"

"Shady Shang," said the unwelcome guest, "you mighta heard of me."

Of course, _everybody_ in Chungking Mansions knew who the Deadly Axe Gang were. Whatever, ahem, "enterprise" you could think of, there was a good chance they had their hands full of it. Back alley gambling, dog fighting, morphine dens, mahjong parlors, prostitution, counterfeit goods, loan sharking... even smuggling consumer goods across the border into the Mainland, while smuggling out items like Cordyceps, pangolin skins, PLA "surplus" firearms, and little girls too.

Oh, and of course they were into running the local rackets. And business had been booming as of late. After Typhoon Ellen had rolled through the neighborhood last year, hundreds of people had been left without power or water, or even with their entire livelihood upended and no insurance to cover it. The Axe Gang were only too happy to step in and help out... for a price, of course. Now, they'd grown enormously in influence and intimidation, and it wasn't just small street vendors and desperate homemakers they were shaking down.

Shady Shang was the latest rising star in the Axe Gang; had started out as a two-bit hoodlum out of Pig Sty Alley, before he'd fallen in with the mob and made a name for himself shylocking for Lan Di. Even without glasses and in the dim light, Guo could make out enough of Shang's appearance: he was still in his late twenties at most, with jet black hair oiled and slicked back, and a thin mustache. He was wearing a black suit, minus the tie and with the top buttons undone. And sunglasses too, even though it was night; he was also chewing on a toothpick.

Following right behind him, Guo could recognize the hulking frame of Fat Choi, every bit as strong as he was dumb, an axe visibly tattoo'ed across the back of his bald head. And just behind him came Sing, who was wearing a simple white wife-beater, to show off the vivid crimson scorpion he had tattooed over most of each arm. Just behind him was Coolie, who was also wearing sunglasses in the middle of the night, along with a garish neon jacket and a set of headphones connected down to a Sony Walkman clipped onto his belt. He couldn't see the last two clearly enough to know if he could recognize them. There was an acrid smell in the air; at least two of them were smoking.

With seven people now crammed into the backroom, six of them bringing bad _qi_ with them, things were getting uncomfortably hot.

"Okay... look... 2,000 _jyun_ ," said Guo, opening the cash box, "earnings from the last few days." He handed it over to Shang. "And I can get another 5k by the end the weekend, I just need..."

Shang picked up the metal box, and threw it on the floor. There was a loud clatter as coins and _gong jyun_ bills were scattered everywhere. "Cut the crap," snarled Shang, "a little bird told me you have 40k stashed away somewhere."

"Please!" begged Guo, "listen! I... I have to pay my staff! I've got loans outstanding, rent coming up soon..."

Shang stared into Guo's desperate eyes for a moment. And then, he glanced to the side, out through the open door. "Say, that serving wench of yours. She's pretty cute," he mused as he pulled the toothpick out of his mouth, "would be a shame if something happened to her." Shang turned to face Choi. "Hey Bonehead! Bring me that _yatou_ , will ya, I wanna talk to her!"

Fat Choi grunted and began lumbering out through the door, out into the main restaurant.

 _No!_ Before Guo could say or do anything else, Shang grabbed him and yanked him backwards. "Right, where were we old man?"

* * *

 **A few meters away...**

He sat there, at the little table, looking down. He had ordered a bowl of curry fish balls, a plate of _zongzi_ \- not the season, but He liked their taste and the local folklore behind them - and a couple other small things. A bottle of San Miguel sat opened but untouched; the beer had since stopped fizzing and was no longer cold.

He had walked into this little restaurant hidden away, thinking that maybe a little food would make Him feel better. But somehow, when the food arrived, He had thanked the waitress, paid, and then... could only sit there and stare at His meal. Not that there was anything wrong with the service (the waitress, _Xiuying_ her name was, was a swell gal, though He suspected that she was contemplating a little more than just good service). Nor was there anything wrong with the food either (true, places like this were not known for their good exercise of hygiene, but it would not affect Him at all). And yes, He could never get Himself inebriated no matter what quantity He consumed (aye, oft-times a curse more so than a blessing), but still He partook in drink, if for no other reason than appearances, both to others and to Himself.

This was not the first time He had journeyed to Hong Kong, but this was the longest time He had stayed here. It was far more than a city; it was an entire nation unto itself, reminding Him almost of the ancient city-states of times long past. This small but industrious nation was slowly reaching the height of its economic power, its "silk slippers" stage as the locals called it (as opposed to its "grass sandals" stage that preceded it). People were moving away from the manufacturing industries that had built this city, and instead moving into the financial and services sector. There was a burgeoning middle class and everyone gambled at the stock and real estate markets; some became incredibly rich overnight. With newfound wealth came an explosion in lavish lifestyles, doing things like mixing their rice and dumplings with shark fins not because they particularly enjoyed this delicacy, but merely because they could afford to.

But, as He could feel, all that optimism was superficial; beneath the pomp and splendor, there was a festering corruption that penetrated every layer of this city's fabric. In prior lives, He could faintly recall how pride and glamor always preceded the fall. And even now, He could feel it that the times ahead for this city were bound to be a troublesome era - politically, financially, even the public health of this great city would be at threat sometime in the not too distant future.

He closed His eyes, and tried to focus His mind again, looking for help, for guidance, hoping that His three hours of meditation would not be a waste of effort and time (and not to mention a few dollars).

You see, while He was only about a mere three decades old in mind and body, in soul, He was... well, suffice to say, it was considerably more complicated. His name was Karl, the name given to Him by the parents who bore Him, the name His childhood friends had always known Him by, and the name He had always identified Himself by. But before He had been born into this current body, into the life of the man named Karl, He had in fact lived before, in another life, in a different body, in another time and place. And another one before that life. And many, _many_ more before then.

To all the others who had been sitting and standing and dining around Him, it looked merely like He was sitting still, staring unflinchingly at His untouched food, but in His vision, He was somewhere else entirely. _Close your eyes_ , He instructed himself _. Relax. Embrace eternity!_ A third eye opened on His forehead, one of solid white light, and the room around Him melted away into infinite blackness...

 _Thousands of years ago..._

 _A fierce warrior king, tall, swarthy and handsome, His four-lion sigil emblazoned across His banners, was riding on the back of an armored war elephant, plodding through the streets of a rebellious city now laid barren by the might of His armies. All around Him, His soldiers called out to Him in cheers of triumph and adulation. He should have reveled in the glory of this great victory, but instead, as He looked around Him at the piles of the dead and dismembered bodies, of men and women and children, He could feel only shame and guilt at such wanton destruction and loss of life..._

After that...

 _A figure stomped across the endless red dunes, dressed head-to-toe in golden armor that looked like some mix of a Centurion of Rome and a knight, though not quite either. His shield was stark white with a simple red cross upon it. All around Him, the very landscape seemed to come alive as hundreds, possibly thousands, of shining metallic skeletons emerged from beneath the red sand, their terrible eyes all glowing a fierce and sickly green. And on the horizon, their master, an enormous mechanical dragon, was stirring from his millennia-long slumber and spreading enormous wings that filled the sky. The golden-armored knight was unafraid, however; He stood firm and steeled Himself for what would truly be a battle for all the ages; His sword began to glow brightly, ethereal flames emanating from the blade..._

After that...

 _A plain, middle-aged man in black-and-red robes was sitting at His desk, writing, feathered quill scratching away across thick parchment. He paused for a moment to look outside and enjoy the view, and beheld the beautiful sight of the Cathedral Of Florence, rising above the sea of tiled and thatched roofs that surrounded it. Ah, Florence, truly the most beautiful and most accomplished of cities anywhere in the world, one of the few shining cities on the hill in these dark times of endless war, corruption, political intrigue, and plague gripping the entire continent. It was His hope that one day His opus would help spread the light that was Florence, that His words would help inspire men to rise up, unite the rest of the warring states and kingdoms of Italia, and one day, the rest of the world, under the benign rule of One most glorious and virtuous..._

After that...

 _A woman marched out onto the battlefield, only Her head and long flowing hair uncovered, the rest of Her body sheathed in silvery metallic armor, sword and shield in hand. A golden fleur-de-lis was engraved across Her breastplate. She was a lonely island of grace and beauty against the ocean of mud and grime and death that surrounded Her, Her cape billowing in the breeze._

 _She stopped for a moment and turned around, to see the tens of thousands of men following Her - battered and beleaguered men, tired from years of fighting, but now, with the end in sight and with new energy flowing through their veins, they rallied themselves for one final push. She took a deep breath, and addressed Her followers, loudly and clearly, Her voice booming like a loudspeaker: "Debout, debout mes frères! La Voie Sacrée est devant nous, menacée de toutes parts par l'ennemi. Même si leurs armes sont la violence incarnée, je sais que notre volonté, notre foi et notre courage gagnerons la bataille! Maintenant en avant mes frères! Suivez moi!" She turned to face forward, and raised Her sword. "Pour Dieu et pour la France!"_

 _No sooner had She finished when a raucous cheer arose from the army, many chanting things like "VIVE LA FRANCE!" and "POUR DIEU ET POUR LA FRANCE!" She smiled, and charged, and Her men followed suit, rifles and bayonets raised high... and that was when the German artillery began to come whistling down around them, exploding, while machine guns clattered, strafing the ranks of men. She alone was unaffected, bullets and shrapnel ricocheting off Her enchanted armor and shield, but around Her, hundreds of others were being felled with each passing second. But still, they kept charging forwards, following their guardian angel, throwing themselves into the line of fire. Verdun had called for aid, and they would answer!_

Karl shuddered at the end of that last vision. In this life, He had read and learnt much about The Great War, but it was something else entirely to have _lived_ it. He had seen this vision multiple times before, and yet this time and every other time, the anguish and pain He could feel was the same as _She_ had felt on that day...

 _...the battle, possibly the roughest, longest, and most gruesome yet seen in all of history, had been won and at long last the siege had been lifted, after fighting for the bitter better part of a year. But in its wake, the entire countryside had been transformed into a cesspool of mud and smoking artillery craters, twisted barbed wire, and the mutilated bodies of an entire generation of French and German youth, carrion to feed the infinite rats and flies swarming about. And this was not the end of this awful war, no, far from it. By the end of it, some 17 million people would lie dead from bullets and shelling and mustard gas; another 40 million from that accursed Flu. And perhaps worst of all, this would not be "the War To End All Wars" as had been promised, but instead heralded the beginning of a terrifying new age of technological nightmares. She looked at all of this that surrounded her, and then She knelt and wept by the body of a young poilu who could not have been more than 16 when his beautiful face had been blown off by a mortar strike. Her surviving followers called her "L'Ange De La Voie Sacrée", but at that moment, She felt less like an angel and more like a mass murderer for having helped lead these them right into the meat-grinder._

Industrialized evil; weapons of mass destruction and mass killings on a scale He/She had never seen before in any lifetime, especially when entrusted into the hands of ordinary Men who, in spite of all of their pretenses of being "enlightened" and "civilized", were every bit as greedy, arrogant, and cruel as any who had ever come before. He did not know what was worse, that these men were acting out of the influence of a higher and more insidious master, or that they had performed all of this evil on their own, without any need of the Ruinous Powers' direction. Perhaps the answer lay somewhere in between.

Karl tried to redirect His thoughts elsewhere, but now more memories were flowing into His head, recalling the emaciated faces of thousands crammed like sardines behind barbed wire fences, the yammering voice of all the Ruinous Powers distilled into one unassuming and mortal but maniacal man, the cries of little girls bathed in napalm as helicopters circled overhead, or the stink of the Earth transformed from verdant meadows into smoke and mud and decaying pools of toxic waste. Time had given Man the great power to destroy himself and his world, but not necessarily the great wisdom to use it.

 _...somewhere, in a secret military base, men in uniforms emblazoned with the Red Star and the Hammer-and-Sickle, were gathered around computer screens, in hushed silence. Red lights were flashing and klaxons were blaring, ominously declaring that an attack was imminent. Their leader, a colonel, was crouched over his desk, sweating as he pondered over what to do next. If this were indeed so, then they had no choice but to retaliate, even if doing so would almost certainly spell the end of civilization as they know it. But... what if that was not the case? What if this was but a false alarm? The colonel's instinct told him that something about this whole situation seemed off. His inner voice told him that the system was new, and had yet to prove its fallibility. The colonel trusted his instinct; the alarm was called off, and within minutes, his decision would be vindicated: it had been a false alarm all along, a small glitch in the network. The colonel did not dare show it in front of his superiors, but later he would close his eyes and quietly thank whatever higher power had given him the strength to keep a level head, and not succumb to panic._

Unfortunately, it would be only a matter of mere weeks before Humanity's very existence would hang in the balance once more.

Karl bit His lip. Oh, what a terrible year that had been. He had to stay vigilant almost constantly, as things had gone from bad to worse. To think that Humanity, in their infinite ignorance and stupidity, had brought themselves to the brink of oblivion not once but _twice_ within the span of a couple months. These Humans now standing around Him, going about their daily lives, they did not know it but they owed _everything_ to Him and Him alone. That episode had been a breaking point for Karl, had permanently left a bitter taste and convinced Him that maybe Humanity was indeed inevitably doomed, that civilization was slowly dying from rabies and the best He could do amounted to wiping flecks of foam from its lips.

Sometimes, if He could focus enough, He found He could catch brief glimpses into the possible future. There was always something treacherous about trying to see into the future, which was why He rarely did so, but now felt like an appropriate occasion to try. His mind dove even deeper into the aether.

 _The first sight He could behold was a great city on the horizon - New York, of course, He had been there many times before. Except now, the familiar skyline seemed to be on fire as a great cloud of ash and smoke smothered lower Manhattan. It looked like it was the World Trade Center, they were burning, thousands of people still trapped within them._

 _Still, further in the future, He could see... only more endless warring, more violence, more acts of terrorism and genocide... here, He could glimpse a massive refugee camp, somewhere in Africa, a camp that had been there so long, for a conflict that had been raging so long, that he could hear the cries of babies being born to parents who, themselves, had been born in this very camp. Elsewhere, He could see visions of the growing numbers of the poor and wretched, wallowing in increasingly packed urban slums whilst elites were oblivious to their plight, isolating themselves in their expensive homes and wondrous entertainments, fawning over the grotesquely decadent life-styles of celebrities and so-called "reality TV" stars but completely out-of-touch with reality._

 _In one brief vision, He could catch glimpse of what looked to be a bloodthirsty Ogre with lurid orange skin and wavy flaming hair and dressed in a business suit, locked in a battle to the death against a shriveled crone, in woman's formal attire. From the sides, their fanatical worshipers hooted and jeered, calling for blood and spectacle. Who would win? He could not see for sure, though He had the suspicion it did not matter, for whoever triumphed in the end, Humanity as a whole would lose, for the fact that these sad excuses were the finest leaders they could scramble together, and the accompanying theatrical comedy of errors that their political discourse had devolved into, spoke to a deeper moral corruption taking root in the people's hearts and minds._

 _Further along, there were food riots, oil wells running dry, dust-storms and drought plaguing the inland while hurricanes battered the coastlines, viral contagions rapidly spreading throughout the globe on commercial airline flights... and then finally, in the not-too-distant future, the world reduced to an arid wasteland, rusted hulks of old skyscrapers dotting the background like the ruins of another Rome whilst in the foreground, tribes of scavengers eked out whatever meager existence they could out of the leftovers of this civilization while ever vigilant for attacks by raiders, mutants, and other denizens of the wasteland..._

Now, this was but one of _infinite_ possible futures, and, by His reckoning, these few visions covered only the next half-century or so; any hope of seeing glimpses of beyond that required a power far greater than He could muster at this moment. It was difficult to say for sure; always in motion the future was, always changing, never set in stone. Everything He was seeing right now _could_ come to pass, or it might not, and if the latter, it could be better, or it could be even _worse_. Karl knew He would have a part to play in all of this, but what exactly was that part and how he would perform it, He could not tell for...

" _Ah Xiu_! Run!" **_Smack_**. "Ahhh!"

Karl snapped out of it.

His vision slowly returned to reality, as His ears had alerted Him to some kind of ruckus going on in the next room, and the plight of the elderly owner, the one called "Uncle Guo". More importantly, He could see, in His third eye, that six more men had entered the backroom, forcefully. All of them were armed, all with the same malice simmering in their minds. They certainly hadn't come with the best intentions in mind.

The waitress, Xiuying, she too had heard the commotion, and was now heading towards the backroom to check up on Guo; Karl could sense the concern in her.

Out from the backroom, a large, bald man emerged, lumbering towards them. "No! Stay away!" blurted Xiuying, alarmed; she must have known him (or rather known _of_ him) enough to recognize the threat immediately. She picked up a knife from the table she had just been cleaning and pointed it menacingly as she could manage at the man - it was tiny and rather pathetic, but the closest thing she could find to defend herself.

The dumb brute scoffed at her and continued to advance. Karl could sense the fear in Xiuying's head, the terror both for herself, but also for the well-being of Uncle Guo. Thus far, the lumbering mook had yet to take note of Karl's presence, and if He wanted to, He could stay out of it, leave or even just remain seated and shroud Himself entirely from their vision. But... He looked again at Xiuying, scared out of her mind for a fate she did not deserve, and yet standing there, looking defiant and determined.

Karl sighed. Sometimes He wondered if this was the worst thing about Humanity; in this life and all the others, He had seen them at their worst, and that would have made it the easiest thing in the world to turn His back on them. But He had also seen them at their best. Oh, what the hell... He reached for his open beer, and took a gulp, and then slammed the bottle down on the tabletop. That got the brute's attention.

"Huh?" bawled the thug (whom Karl could now see was named Choi). He noticed Karl for the first time and muttered _sei gweilo_ under his breath (though Karl could hear him perfectly); he plodded over to where Karl was sitting, and banged his fists on the table. "You! Go now!" he barked, in broken English. "Go! You go!"

"What is this city coming to when a man can't eat his dinner in peace?" Karl growled back coolly, His voice deep and gruff but in perfectly fluent Cantonese. "You just gonna stand there, big boy?"

The thug looked surprised, but then responded by raising his right hand.

"Don't. Touch. Me." hissed Karl.

"Heh heh," laughed Choi as did just that, flicking Karl's forehead. "What're you gonna do about it, _baat poh_?"

It took Karl every bit of self-restraint He could muster not to simply have ripped that oaf apart from the inside out, there and then. Karl could feel His heart racing, His fingers twitched and His third eye flickered, but He knew He could and should be a far better person than that. He closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. And then, He swiftly kicked upward, planting His right foot deep into Fat Choi's groin.

Getting kicked in the balls usually, by itself, is pretty painful, but this was on a whole new level of pain. Karl could see very clearly into Choi's mind (not that there was much interesting to see there anyway) and had found a nerve center He could exploit. Choi let loose a blood-curdling scream such that you would think that someone were gouging his eyes out as slowly and cruelly as possible (because that was _exactly_ what Karl wanted him to feel). Karl calmly stood up, grabbed Choi by his collar with both hands, and _lifted_ him, leaving his feet dangling a couple inches off the floor.

In the next room, Karl could sense the five other mooks had been put on alert. He closed His eyes and refocused His mind away from Choi and onto each man as they emerged through the doorway... _There were three, their names Sing, Little Chon, and Coolie. Two more, Viper and Shang, the leader, remained in the other room. Coolie had a gun, a... Norinco Type 77? Interesting, He had never seen one of those before. On the other hand, it was a semi-automatic pistol like any other He had seen before so it probably worked the same way. The other two gangsters were clutching axes_...

Karl looked at Xiuying, who was staring at Him. Awe and curiosity seemed to have overcome her fear and determination, but still He wanted no risk of harm to her. "Hide!" He commanded, "no, don't worry about me!"

Karl threw Choi down onto a nearby table; it broke under the thug's weight and Choi lay there on the floor, dazed. His attention was now on the three others confronting Him.

"Stop!" shouted Coolie as he aimed his gun at Karl. Karl said nothing, but instead began stalking towards him, slowly, taking his time. "I said STOP!," continued Coolie, "I'll kill you!" When He kept advancing despite the warnings, Coolie pulled the trigger.

 _ **BANG**_.

Coolie screamed as the gun backfired; he collapsed backwards onto the floor, his hands bloody from the pieces of metal now embedded in them.

Sing and Chon were bewildered at what just happened to Coolie, but they didn't stop. They charged at Him, axes raised. _Oh, they are so asking for this_. Just as before, He could have instantly have killed them on the spot, but He knew He should hold back for now. Instead, He focused His mind on the room around Him, trying to get a sense of space and whatever there was at hand.

Moving swiftly like an arrow, Karl darted forward, grabbed a whole table, and then pushed it into the two assailants' path. He pushed it right into them, and kept pushing until they hit the wall, the two gangsters pinned in between. Sing and Chon swung their axes, but fell short and struck only the tabletop with a pair of loud **_thunks_**.

Karl's sixth sense notified Him of a new attacker. Fat Choi was back on his feet and now trying a second go at Him, this time having picked up a bench from one of the tables, swinging it like a club. Karl turned on the spot, and _stopped_ the bench in His right hand's grip. Choi looked stunned at this, his muscles and veins bulging, right before Karl's left fist made contact with his face.

Choi let go of the bench; Karl gripping it tightly with both hands now, swiftly swung it around in a full circle, and brought it to collide with Choi's head. The wooden bench broke apart; Choi wobbled on his feet from the concussion, and then stumbled several steps backward before toppling against the far wall, right under a window.

In that time, however, Chon and Sing had pulled themselves free from where they were pinned down. Karl redirected His focus on them. It was then He noted that Xiuying was no longer in the main room; she was taking shelter in the kitchen. _Good_ , thought Karl, _that means_...

Chon and Sing charged, this time trying to approach from two sides at once. And then, Chon froze on the spot, his eyes going wide; he was lifted into the air, where he hovered for a second, before an unseen force propelled him across the room, with the such force that he hit Sing first, and the two of them continued sailing through the air and right into where Choi was just now getting back to his feet. Choi crashed backwards out through the window behind him, and Chon and Sing followed.

Outside, Karl could "see", an awning hanging over one of the storefronts below caught all three of them in a heap... momentarily, for a couple seconds later, Choi's immense weight caused the canvas' stitching to rip, swiftly depositing all three thugs onto the sidewalk.

Satisfied, Karl turned and strutted through the doorway and into the backroom.

"Hold it right there!" barked the fifth gangster, the one nicknamed Viper, as he emerged from his hiding spot behind the door. He also had a pistol in his hands, pointing it point blank at the back of Karl's head.

Time seemed to stand still as Karl pondered over how best to deal with this, when He sensed someone moving right behind Viper. He couldn't help but smile.

Something thudded down hard on Viper's head, with such force that he was knocked unconscious immediately; he didn't even have time to react to the pain, either from the concussion or the hot frying oil that had splashed onto his head. Karl turned around and saw Xiuying standing there, a cast iron frying pan in her hands that she must have taken from the kitchen, breathing heavily.

That left only one bad guy remaining. Karl and Xiuying turned to face Shang, who was standing at the furthest end of the room from them, one arm clutching poor Uncle Guo by the shoulders, and the other holding an axe to his neck. Karl could sense equal parts confusion, fear, and rage boiling in Shang's mind. "What... what..." began Shang, struggling to get the words out, "...what... whatever you did, don't take another step! I'll... I'll... I'll kill him!"

"Really?" said Karl, calmly. He took another step.

"I'm warning you!" stammered Shang, "I'll... I'll do it!"

"Sure, go ahead," said Karl, sensing the doubt and hesitation running through Shang's mind - of course He would know, since it was He who had put it there in the first place.

Guo, feeling Shang's grip on him relax a little, immediately lunged forward. It took another second for Shang's clouded mind to register what was going on, but by then, Guo had managed to wrestled himself free, and turn around and grab the axe by the handle. Guo pulled, and yanked the weapon right out of Shang's hand.

And now, Shady Shang, rising star of the Deadly Axe Gang, the Legend Of Pig Sty Alley, Lan Di's Right-Hand Man... squealed and fled like a little piglet at the sight of one angry restauranteur, one angry waitress, and one angry patron advancing on him. Except instead of running for the open doorway he'd come in through in the first place, Karl had instead planted a different idea in Shang's mind: the thug ran to the window, and threw himself out, down towards the street below. Even with the din of the city streets, they could hear a sickening _crunch_ , followed by gasps from bystanders.

"My hero!" blurted Xiuying, immediately throwing herself at Karl, wrapping her arms around Him and planting a little kiss on His cheek. Karl blushed. _Okay, this is a little embarrassing_...

He turned to face Guo. "You okay?"

"What... what..." replied Guo, breathing heavily, "what was _that_?"

Karl took a look out of the window. Several storeys below, Shang had landed on and broken both legs and now lay sprawled across the pavement, moaning in pain. The other gangsters had fled, so no one else was helping him, though pedestrians around him were gathering, pointing and murmuring. "I dunno," shrugged Karl, "you'd think something had _gotten into his head_."

Xiuying came to Guo's side and helped him to his feet. Karl, meanwhile, stooped to pick up the old man's glasses off the floor. He noticed several cracks in them. Knowing that they weren't looking at Him at that moment, He quickly closed his eyes and concentrated. The cracks disappeared, and the glasses looked good as new. "Here you go," He said, handing them to Guo.

"Listen, stranger, I... I don't how to say this enough but," the old man took Karl's hands into his own, "thank you. Thank you."

"We're not done here yet," muttered Karl. He strode back out to the bar. There, laying on the floor with his back against the wall, was Coolie, nursing his bleeding hands from when his pistol had backfired. Coolie looked up and flipped out when he saw Karl looming over him.

"Please! Don't hurt me!" begged Coolie, tears in his eyes, "this was all Shang's idea! He orders, I just follow!"

 _Lots of men have committed unspeakable crimes throughout history, because they were just "following orders"_ , thought Karl bitterly, but He said nothing and just continued to glare silently at the pathetic little man. He bent down, grabbed Coolie by the collar, and then yanked him up. The gangster moaned and closed his eyes, expecting the worst.

"Nice Walkman," hissed Karl through gritted teeth. He pulled the device off of Coolie, along with the headphones; He could faintly hear ABBA's _Dancing Queen_ emanating from the dangling ear-pieces. "I'm keeping this."

Coolie opened his eyes. He also noticed a growing wet patch was now spreading across the gangster's pants; He let go of him. "Now be a good little boy and run along," He snarled, "and if you or any of your friends ever show your ugly faces here again..." He didn't need to finish His sentence because He knew the other guy was already imagining the rest. Coolie nodded weakly, and ran off.

"Haha!" shouted Xiuying after him, "yeah, _diu lei_! _Diu lei lo mo_!"

Karl smiled weakly. The unfortunate truth of the matter was that the Axe Gang had fled tonight with their tails between their legs, but they could always come back, with new guys in their ranks, and at a time long after He had continued on his wanderings. Sure, there was nothing stopping Him from simply heading over to Kwun Tong right now, tracking down Lan Di and killing him along with every single member of the Axe Gang. But then what? Give it a couple months at most and other gangs would move in on former-Axe turf in no time, possibly even worse ones.

Karl was filled with a great sadness. This seemed inevitable about Human nature. No matter how many times He had brought the world back from the brink, no matter how many wars He ended, no matter how many tyrants He killed or little children He pulled out from the rubble - something would always rise again to take its place. Like the Lernean Hydra, every time He sliced off one filthy head, another two would simply grow to take its place, perhaps even meaner and uglier than before.

Guo emerged from the door to the backroom; he was carrying his little money box in his hands, his head bowed slightly. "Please, I want you to have this. All of it. Thank you."

"Uh, thanks, but that's not necessary," said Karl. "Tell ya what, I'll just have this on the house." He picked up the beer He had left on His table. "So... you guys gonna be alright?"

"Time will tell," said Guo, sadly, taking a seat. "But for now, we are fine. Thank you, friend."

"Who are you?" asked Xiuying, leaning closer. "Where you from?"

"Just... call me _Karl_ ," said Karl, "like Charles, but German."

"Your Cantonese is perfect," observed Guo, "you been here in HK long?"

"Oh, not too long," He replied. _Relatively speaking_... "I'm very good at picking up languages."

"Are you okay?" asked Xiuying, innocently, "you can spend the night with me, my home's not too far away."

"Uh..." began Karl. _You know what, why the hell not?_ "Uh, yeah sure." He smiled.

And then, out of nowhere, Karl groaned. He dropped the beer in his hand; it hit the floor and shattered. An intense splitting pain hit His head as if every pain receptor had fired up all at once. It was _excruciating_.

Karl collapsed onto the floor, convulsing. His third eye was burning, a sensation He had rarely ever felt before, at least in this life. Between the bouts of madness, His mind glimpsed vivid visions of an enormous swirling purple and blue eye in the sky, lightning crackling all around it. It was not alone. There were many others too, opening up in the blackness of space like tears in the very universe itself.

And then, as suddenly as the vision came, it was gone again and His vision returned to normal. When Karl came too, sweating and feeling dazed, he could see Uncle Guo and Xiuying squatting around him, looking confused and frightened.

" _Ah Xiu_ , he's sick; call the doctor!" barked Guo.

Before He could gather His words to speak, there was a rumbling in the air. At first, it sounded like a jet airliner coming in to land, as it was coming in from the northeast, where the airport was. A bright flash was visible in the windows, followed by a distant crash or an explosion. There were sounds of cries and murmurs from hundreds of people outside, and dogs and cats throughout the city barking and hissing madly.

"What was that?" said Guo.

Karl knew not what exactly it was, only that it meant trouble.

"I've... got to go," He groaned as He climbed to His feet.

"No, you have to rest!" insisted Guo. Karl ignored him but half-walked, half-stumbled over towards the open window.

"No! Please, it's dangerous!" cried Xiuying.

Karl did not answer, but pulled Himself out through the window.

He plummeted several storeys, but slowed down as he neared the ground, and landed gently on His two feet. He turned back for a moment and saw Guo and Xiuying standing by the window, looking down at Him; He did not need his third eye to see the concern in his face and the tears in hers and the utter astonishment in both. He nodded, and then turned and ran off, looking for the source of this commotion.

* * *

 _ **Writer's Notes:** and that, ladies and gentlemen, was the God Emperor Of Mankind. Special thanks goes to **chankljp** who assisted with Cantonese, and **antoine** who assisted with French. _

_Now, there is an elephant in the room, and I think it should be addressed. As you probably noticed, my version of the GEOM is a slightly different one from what you may be used to. Some readers, on this website and the other one too, have reacted with hostility to this alternative version. All I'll say on this matter is: just roll with it._

 _Just in case anyone was curious or confused about the meaning of Karl's visions (some of which are quite abstract), they include the following: (1) a previous incarnation as the Indian emperor Ashoka Maurya, (2) Saint George fighting the C'Tan known as "the Void Dragon" along with legions of his Necron servants, (3) Renaissance writer Niccolo Machiavelli, (4) an unnamed Amazon warrior fighting in World War One and afterwards seeing the aftermath of the Battle Of Verdun (took place in 1916), (5) a vision of an incident in 1983, a year where two close calls occurring a few weeks apart nearly led to nuclear war breaking out (both of which happened in real life); (6) a vision of the "bad future" of the 21st century, as GEOM's limited abilities to tell the future only extends for a few decades (though these visions gradually dissipate once the Imperium arrives and interrupt the flow of time, rewriting the future in the process)._


	21. Twilight Zone

_**Writer's Notes** : thank you all readers for the positive response to the previous chapter. Today, we will find out what happens next to Karl. Recommended listening for this chapter (at least the last part of it, as I thought the lyrics were rather fitting) is a 1982 hit by Golden Earring, and that song is..._

* * *

 **Chapter XXI:**

 **TWILIGHT ZONE**

 **Hacienda Del Tony,**  
 **Hibiscus Island, Miami,**  
 **State Of Florida, USA.**

The entrance hall of _Hacienda Del Tony_ was as grand as it was opulent, Corinthian columns holding up the second floor mezzanine while red satin curtains adorned each of the 30-foot-high glass windows, and a large marble fountain bubbled and gurgled in the center. Tony could buy whatever the fuck he could think of that pleased him and yet, looking at it all now, when he could be taking his final breaths upon God's good Earth, it all felt so empty and meaningless.

" _Hefe!_ " shouted Hector as he rushed into the hall from outside, struggling to wrench a fresh mag into his Uzi as he ran. There was a rapid burst of Uzi fire - not his, but someone else's - from somewhere behind him, and Hector cried out as he collapsed forwards, several fresh bloody bullet holes apparent across his back.

 _Bastards!_ , was the only thought that ran through Tony cocaine-fueled mind. There was no telling what had happened to Pablo, Ramon, Sonny, all the others...

"Tony!" shouted a familiar and very much unwelcome voice as a man strutted in through the main doorway, followed by others, "you motherfucker, you! Papa Sanchez sends his regards!"

Of course, leave it to Francisco "Papa" Sanchez to take advantage of WW3 breaking out to settle a personal score. The Medellín Cartel ruled supreme here in Miami, but Sanchez was content to have second, at least before the new guys like Tony, Honest Juan, and the Torretto Family gang had entered the scene over the last few years and had begun undercutting the old man on his own turf. On the surface, things were cordial between them, Tony had met Papa Sanchez several times at Honest Juan's yacht parties, had even gone golfing with the fucker. But beneath the surface, they had knives to each other's throats; hell, Tony had personally killed Sanchez's thugs on several occasions, had once choked one to death with his own hands. So, to be entirely honest, it should have not surprised Tony in the slightest that the very moment civil order had broken down, as it was now, with all the rioting and looting and God knows what the fuck those things out there were, that he could expect some friendly neighborhood hombres to show up at his door.

Now, Sanchez himself was nowhere to be seen, and justifiably so, as he'd probably grabbed his stash and high-tailed it outta town as soon as all the chaos and fighting had started (y'know, just as Tony himself had been planning to do before Misty had gotten herself all bloodied up). No, leading the boys in Sanchez's stead was his trusted righthand man, Choza, who was a rather nasty piece of work all on his own. Tony knew it was him, could have sworn he'd smelled that bastard's foul stench even before he'd seen the gang's pick-up trucks pulling down his front gate and rumbling up his driveway.

Choza was a real dirty brute, both in the figurative and literal sense; just looking at him, you'd never have thought he was Sanchez's number two - grubby, unshaven, with long wild hair, dressed in dirty green army fatigues and a red bandana and with a mean machete on his belt - he looked more like some filthy guerrilla fighter than a proper gentleman criminal. Following right behind him were maybe a couple dozen more of Sanchez's gang, all armed to the teeth with assault rifles and machine pistols and machetes. Elsewhere, Tony could hear gunfire from outside as more of Choza's men were out back by the poolside, locked in a shootout with Pablo and Sonny and the others.

Tony truly was alone, standing on the second floor balcony. But he had the high ground. Stooping slightly so as to keep Lorena low to the floor, Tony planted one foot solidly on the bannister, and stared down at his wouldbe doom. Choza stared back up at him. Oh, you got just tell it even from up here, just from that shit-eating grin of his, that he'd been looking forward to this day for a long time. The other men pointed their guns at Tony, but held their fire; Choza clearly wanted the pleasure for him and him alone.

Well, Tony wasn't letting them have it. He said nothing, but instead heaved Lorena up, and squeezed the trigger.

Lorena did not fire immediately, but instead took her time to wake up. There was a whirring, and all six barrels of the heavily (and illegally) modified M134 helicopter-mounted-turned-infantry-portable machine gun began to spin.

When Choza saw just what exactly was it Tony was holding, the look on his face changed abruptly. Tony just had to smile; oh, if he died today, then at least that look on Choza's face alone would have made this last stand worth it.

" _MIERDA!_ " shouted Choza, "TAKE COV...!"

Lorena unleashed six barrels of hell.

It was only a short burst, but the recoil was _tremendous_ ; Tony stumbled backwards several feet, while Lorena bucked and kicked in his hands, spraying _everywhere_. Several window panes shattered while chunks of the wall exploded, showering glass and marble and plaster down into the atrium below, while spent cartridges poured out of the breach like crazy, forming a small pile at Tony's feet. The barrels were already starting to get hot, wisps of smoke and steam rising from them. God damn it, who the hell thought this was a good idea!

Well, not that Tony minded too much anymore, now that the blood (and coke) was pumping through his veins more furiously than ever before. He planted both feet firmly into the floor best he could, and squeezed the trigger again; the barrels began spinning once more...

Choza and his men had taken cover best they could, though some were still caught out in the open. Others were hunkering down in places that proved to do absolutely squat against the virtually non-stop stream of 7.62mm rounds that now bore down upon them.

And at the center of it all, Tony hooted and hollered and cackled like a madman, his voice echoing around the atrium between bursts from Lorena.

"YOU DICKHEADS, YOU TELL SANCHEZ THIS!" he roared, "NOBODY. _ABSOLUTELY NOBODY_. FUCKS. WITH. TONY!"

* * *

 **Not Too Far Away...**

From his vantage point, Capt. Hannibal Steele kept his lasgun sights trained on the entrance of (what he supposed was) the local governor's manse. Gunfire had erupted within, autogun fire mostly, no las-weapons or bolters or plasma of any kind. Perhaps these were the best weapons the local militia could get their hands on in a hurry. If so, Captain Steele had to begrudgingly give these rebels some credit for having the balls to (attempt to) stand up against the might of the Imperium with such pathetic firearms. However they expected to stand up against Daemons or 'Nidz was anyone's guess.

"We're in position, sir," came the voice of Sgt. Drebin over the vox caster, "we've located a side entrance, looks to lead to the kitchen area."

On his HUD, Steele could see a rough map of the immediate area, updated every few seconds by the motion trackers built into his helmet. Steele and his squaddies were all demarcated with green dots, while all others in the area - hostile, neutral, unidentified - were all marked with red. Two clusters of green dots indicated the places where Sgt. Drebin's and Kelso's sections had taken point. But something was going on inside the manse's atrium, judging from the erratic movement of the red dots concentrated within the structure. There were additional red dots out behind the building too, also moving erratically.

"Hold," commanded Steele. "Something's up. We might have friendlies."

Steele refocused his scope on one of the large glass windows adorning the frontside of the manse, trying to peer inside and catch a glimpse of whatever the hell was going on. There was a firefight alright; the locals were shooting at each other. This confused Steele. What was going on? Who was shooting at who?

"Orders, sir?" It was Kelso over the vox this time.

"Hold!" ordered Steele as he rapidly scoped out several different spots, still trying to get a good look at what was going on. If there were loyalists within, he needed to know for sure. The Templars they were deploying with just smashed and killed everything in their path, but not them. They were _Warhawks_ , the sons and daughters of Harakon.

And then he saw him: a lone man, dressed in naught much else 'cept trousers and a t-shirt, but with what looked like a frakkin' rotary cannon. It reminded Steele of the several occasions he had deployed with Catachans - crazy lunatics, all of them, fighting Orks and Daemons and 'Nidz without even proper flak armor (for whatever good it did them; at least it generally afforded better protection than t-shirts-over-big-muscles). He could remember one time they'd deployed with a recon unit of them, and one of them had wrestled a 'Nid Ravener and choked the bitch to death with nothing else but his biceps.

Well, this local looked like he could very well fit in with the Catachans. Steele almost stood there on his vantage point, mesmerized by the sight of the man. And it was then his HUD zoomed in on the man, and enhanced, showing clearly the details on his shirt. It was an Aquila, its proud wings outstretched, and all around it, strange words in a strange language: "TOUROFTHEWORLD - VANHALEN - 19 - 84", whatever they meant.

"Hold!" barked Steele, "we have a friendly. Possible loyalist. I'm marking him right now."

"The fella with the rotary cannon?" quipped Kelso, "he looks like he's holding pretty well on his own."

"Alright, you know the drill," commanded Steele, "smoke grenades, set guns to stun, I don't want some idiot accidentally putting a lasbolt through a loyalist's brain. Alright, move! Warhawks, to the rescue!"

Steele trained his sights on the main entrance doors, Kelso's unit taking cover on either side of it. At Kelso's command, two privates - Madden and Pascal, Steele could recognize them by the distinctive personal markings they had drawn on their carapace armor - came forward and hurled a grenade each into the open space. There were two loud bangs, and at once the doorway and windows began to blacken with smoke. Kelso signaled, and the rest of his unit charged into the breach. Meanwhile, though they were out of sight, Steele could see on his HUD that Drebin's unit had also entered the manse.

Steele sighed. They were just getting started. Well, no point in remaining here anymore. Having checked the area around him and scouted out his next vantage point, he got back to his feet, and leapt off the rooftop. His jump-pack came to life mid-air, and Steele hit the ground twenty meters away, and started running.

* * *

 **Location: Undisclosed Location,**  
 **Unidentified Planet.**

No sooner had the Valkyrie's landing gear touched down upon the ground when the rear ramp was already lowered, and heavy plasteel-studded boots stomped down it and onto the grass. Inquisitor Tarkien emerged out from the darkness of the Valk's passenger hold, out into the sunlight. Behind him, his retinue of five Inquisitorial Stormtroopers emerged, the last among them was also leading three of the seven prisoners they had acquired, all handcuffed and chained in a line; the other four remained onboard, still unconscious from when they had been stunned during the boarding action. Interrogation thus far had been fruitless, seeing as they spoke in no tongue of the Imperium that Tarkien, a well-traveled individual who spoke two dozen language himself, could recognize (though he suspected that perhaps a Tech-Priest could be of assist here).

Tarkien looked around him. The field was a large, flat grassy area, white lines painted onto the surface, with bleachers set up at one side; some sort of sporting ground by the looks of it. Ahead of him, several vehicles of the Militarum were parked in a line around the field; three Tauros Assault Vehicles were parked at various angles, next to a pair of the similarly named but completely different Taurox transports, their turrets scanning back and forth. Part of the bleachers had been completely crushed into splinters when a 300-ton Command-Baneblade had been driven right through them; the metal behemoth was now sitting and purring quietly - its engines had been shut down to conserve fuel, though the electric motors that ran its eleven turrets were still running. Tarkien had to give the Kobrans credit where it was due; most Militarum regiments declined to deploy such heavy assets among the first wave of any planetary landing, but the Kobrans' doctrine insisted on applying overwhelming brute force from the get-go.

Standing in front of these vehicles was the commander; clad in a solid black leather combat-suit and coat, she was flanked by her command staff, including a Vox-operator, three standard bearers, and a squad of her personal guards, dressed in the distinctive red armor, tunics, and visored helms of the Crimson Guard, the elite stormtrooper corps of the Kobran Legions.

"My Lord," she addressed him, saluting, "Lady Baroness Kisarovna, 112th Kobran Legion, and acting supreme commandress of all Kobran Expeditionary Forces operating in this sector, at your service."

"And where, pray tell, are the rest of Kobran Command?" inquired the Inquisitor.

"The Honorable Field Marshal remained aboard our Dreadnought _Serpentor_ to coordinate our fleet and ground forces," said the Commandress. "We, regrettably, have since lost contact."

The loss of contact with the fleet was only the start of their problems. The continents of this world were radically different from any of the data they had been given. And then there was the issue of the natives themselves, who seemed completely ignorant of the Imperium, of Gothic, and of His Holiness The Emperor - a fact alone for which Tarkien could have executed them on the spot, though Emperor be merciful, he intended to first squeeze them for every useful piece of information he could gather. A cursory analysis of their speech, and of the various materials and papers they had salvaged from that pathetic orbital craft of theirs, had confirmed that the texts were written in... some ancient tongue not spoken since even before the Dark Age Of Technology.

All of this pointed to one conclusion: the Warp anomaly they had encountered during the drop had somehow chrono-displaced them.

It was a shocking inference to draw - or would have been to most. But in Tarkien's line of work, one is trained and conditioned well, by both training and experience, to always anticipate the unanticipated, and when such events do come to pass, to set aside whatever surprise and confusion they may be feeling, and focus on what must be done next.

In this case, chrono-displacement was something not unheard of to Tarkien, and as a ranking member of the Inquisition, he had access to forbidden knowledge that the vast majority of the Imperium's citizenry were not. He knew, for example, that Imperial Army soldiers had once appeared in the Alson System after having been dispatched to pacify the system during the Horus Heresy. They were awarded ten-thousand years of back-pay (an oversight of the Administratum, no doubt), and promptly purchased a new homeworld, since their old one had since been lost. Incidents like these and many others were the specialty of the Ordo Chronos, through even Tarkien was not privy to the full extent of their activities, though he knew enough to have his suspicions.

"This could be Terra Nova at an earlier stage in its history," cautioned Tarkien, coldly. "The misalignment of the continents could be attributed to terra-forming over the last ten millennia since the Great Crusade."

The baroness did an admirable job of keeping her confusion hidden, though Tarkien still noticed a slight twitch her mouth. "My Lord, do you believe the rebellious governor may have been working on just such a... warp-based chrono-displacement device?"

"Whether he did or not, that is now immaterial," said Tarkien, "our priority now shall be to consolidate our available forces, secure our presence on this world against the hostile indigenes, and reestablish contact with the Imperium..." ... _whatever of it exists at this time_. Tarkien thought for a moment. But what if they really were at a time before the Great Crusade? He could see the potential challenges there... but also the opportunities as well. But that was assuming, of course, that this were true, and ultimately, they would first need to get a better bearing on where and when exactly were they. And that would take a while. For now, priorities...

Just next to the field was a low, two-storey brick building. Beside the building, Tarkien glimpsed a long yellow vehicle - some kind of autobus - flipped over on its side, burning, but with the words "Richmond Public Schools District" clearly visible on its side. As the Lady Kisarovna led him onwards, they rounded the building and came across some three hundred or so prisoners, all sitting or squatting down in the grass while a couple dozen Kobran guardsmen stood watch. They were mostly children, aged about ten to fifteen standard Imperial Years, with some adults as well mixed among them. Tarkien noted the incredible diversity of different skin colors to be observed among them; people on most Imperial worlds were the same shade after millennia of intermixing.

"Hostages?" asked Tarkien.

"Yes my Lord," she replied, "we believe this structure to be a school, so we sought to mollify the parents."

"Kathryn Sullivan!" blurted out of the children, excitedly, standing up - a young boy with glasses. He was looking directly at one of the prisoners from the spacecraft that Tarkien's troopers was escorting, clearly recognizing her.

"Shut up, rebel scum!" shouted the nearest guardsman, and he stomped up to the boy and slapped him hard across the face, knocking the little boy to the ground. The boy burst out in tears; the other children around him cried out in fear, and one of the adults stood up in protest, but the guardsman shouted back at him, and pointed his lasgun threateningly at him.

Inquisitor Tarkien looked on, impassively. Brutal? Yes, of course, but any and all measures can and should be taken for the restoration and preservation of Imperial Order. If a Kobran guardsman could not bring himself to discipline an unruly child, how could one then expect him to stand up against the Ruinous Powers?

In front of the school building, a lone flagpole stood. A pair of Kobran guardsmen were at work, lowering the original flag that had flown there, and raising in its stead two flags in quick succession: one, a golden Imperial Aquila upon grey background, and the other, the distinctive flag of Planet Kobra, black Kobrahead on red background. As Tarkien strutted past, he took a good look at the discarded flag, lying in the mud; it was a flag made up of alternating white and red stripes, with a blue box in one corner filled with fifty little white pentagrams. Curious.

"My Lord," addressed the Stormtrooper Sergeant, approaching Tarkien and bowing, "a priority call through our special channels. Code Romeo Plus Delta Plus Sierra Break Break Echo Hotel Victor Two Bravo Four."

Tarkien paused. He, of course, had memorized every transponder sequence in use by the Inquisition. This particular code indicated the presence of a Temple Assassin. Tarkien did not need to instruct his retinue what to do next, for the look on his face was sufficient. The sergeant nodded, and handed the long-range vox caster to him, while one of the other troopers beckoned the Kobrans to leave the Inquisitor alone.

"Inquisitor," croaked the voice over the vox, flat and mechanical, run through a dozen vocal filters to remove even the slightest chance that its speaker could ever be recognized in person.

"Operative Qwin'zel," replied Tarkien, consulting his dataslab as he spoke, "you are supposed to be on assignment in the Ostrander Sector under Inquisitor Waller at this moment, if I recall correctly."

"There has been a... displacement of sorts," replied the voice, not once betraying a single emotion or infliction.

"Explain," he commanded.

The agent's voice continued: "my drop pod sensors registered a Warp anomaly as I entered the atmosphere. Next I knew, I found myself on this world."

Imperial forces from two separate operations, a sector apart, finding themselves on one world simultaneously. There was more going on than meets the eye, though Tarkien had to first find out what exactly was this operative up to. "Kindly explain your mission," ordered Tarkien, "Inquisitorial Override, Code X-Ray Three Two One Alpha Romeo Zero; Authorization: W. Tarkien."

"Override Inquisitorial Override, Code Five Five Three Seven Eight Zero Zero Eight; Authorization: A. Waller."

Tarkien was annoyed, but was not surprised; he would absolutely have done the same in Waller's position. Still... "We will discuss this matter later. For now, our priority shall be to secure our planethead on this world."

"No conflict with my prior orders," replied the assassin, "awaiting your directives."

"The Militarum and Astartes scouts report that a town located roughly 150 klicks north of our positions appears to be the enemy capital," said Tarkien. "I believe Protocol Beta Delta Zero is appropriate for this situation. Terminate all enemy leaders."

"It shall be done," replied the voice, curtly and without question.

* * *

 **The White House,**  
 **Washington, District Of Columbia.**

The bowl sitting on his desk was almost empty as the President grabbed another handful of jellybeans. Right now, he took no pleasure from the sweets, he was eating more out of anxiety and frustration. There were only seven other people in the office with him, and yet it felt oppressively cramped and crowded.

In one end of the room, two of his speechwriters were seated on the sofa, furiously writing and typing away, trying to get his speech to the nation ready on time - it would have to be done quickly but also done well, for he already knew that this was probably going to be the most important speech he would ever give. At the other end of the room, several staffers from the DoD had set up shop, their job to keep the President appraised of things. SecDef had been evacuated to the Emergency Operations Center over on nearby Mount Weather, so all the important communications between them were relayed through their staffers.

God, it was awful being the President at times like this - having to be both the ultimate decision-maker on everything, but also the one who would have to be making all the speeches and everything, being the person that everyone in a nation in shock would turn to for moral, emotional, and spiritual guidance. The sight of the Nuclear Football sitting on a chair next to him weighed heavily on his mind; the option of deploying tactical nukes had already been brought up several times.

At the very least, it was apparent that there was no immediate risk of a nuclear attack, either by these aliens, or by Reds seizing an opportunity, seeing as the Commies were dealing with their own invasion. No, had that been the case, millions of people across the nation would already have been fried to a crisp within a half-hour.

By now, they had confirmed there were indeed six landing zones across the nation, but the immediate priority was by far the largest of them all; an invasion ground force that has landed throughout Virginia, consisting of unknown _thousands_ of enemy troops, supported by armored fighting vehicles, air support, and what appears to be a strike force of those superhuman armored giants that also landed in Miami, L.A., and at least one other place in Cali. Meanwhile, every minute, the Air Force was expending valuable assets - jets, missiles, the lives of brave servicemen - desperately trying to keep the enemy's air assets contained to the airspace above Virginia, to stop them running roughshod across the nation, bombing cities and God knows what else.

And this was just the tactical side of things. He hadn't dared look at all the news yet from other quarters, news on how the stock market was handling all of this; how much prices on _everything_ from gas to Eggo Frozen Waffles would be skyrocketing in anticipation of wartime shortages; how badly their economy was going to tank (as it inevitably would, and what a shame too, just as his little "supply side" experiment was beginning to bear fruit); and what all of this was doing to ordinary American people, those directly affected but also those everywhere else. This was a crisis unprecedented since Pearl Harbor.

Speaking of which, his eyes fell upon and lingered on the portrait of FDR that had hung on the far wall ever since Truman had first put it up there. He'd always been a great admirer of the man - openly and passionately in his more youthful days, but even to this day he maintained a quiet respect for the achievements of the New Deal, even if it had led this nation dangerously down the path of... oh dear God. It occurred to him that if things continued as they were right now, he would probably be forced to end up emulating his old hero in more ways than one.

"Mr. President, we have a new development," warned one of the aides.

 _Of course we do_ , he thought, _it only keeps going from bad to worse here, doesn't it?_ "What is it?"

"Air Force Two diverted from its course," said the aide, "the order came from the Vice-President himself."

The President was annoyed. This was completely out of character for George. What was it, his family? Of course, must be. He began to reach for the red telephone on his desk.

"Sir, before you call him," interrupted the aide, "you should be warned: we have reason to suspect that he may have been compromised."

"Oh?" remarked the President. He paused. "How do we know that?"

"Sir, about twenty minutes ago, Air Force Two sent out a radio transmission alluding to the presence of Miss Geraldine Ferrero onboard."

"Wait a minute. So you're telling me that Veep's been compromised by... _the Mondale Campaign_?" asked the President, raising an eyebrow.

"No, sir, uh, sorry, that's not what I meant. I mean, well, see, Ms. Ferrero's still in Philly, FBI confirmed it. Which means whoever Veep is meeting with right now is an imposter."

"What harm would this enemy agent be able to inflict?"

"Apart from holding the Vice-President hostage and having access to his files?" replied the aide, "well, Mr. President, we have considered the possibility of a jetliner being hijacked and used as an improvised missile against both civilian and military targets."

"What?" blurted the President. The idea of using a whole damn aeroplane as an improvised bomb was shocking, insane almost. And all the more chilling, for it made sense too, from a certain, twisted logic. After all, it had not even been a full year since that attack on the Marines in Beirut, where a couple of crazy, suicidal fanatics had driven a truckload of C4 into the barracks and cost the USMC the largest loss of life in a single day since Iwo Jima (that is, at least until today). God, now that had been an awful experience for any President to have to handle.

"Where are they now?" he asked.

"They'll have begun making their descent towards Andrews Field by now," replied the aide, "ETA: 5 minutes. Sir... we have SAMs in place. We could intercept..."

"You want me to shoot down the Vice-President?" said the President.

"We can't afford to take any chances," warned the aide in hushed tones, "but the choice is yours."

* * *

 **Not too far away.**

"Kindly fasten your seatbelts and stow away your tray-tables, we're on final approach to Andrews Field," hissed the pilot over the intercom system. "Uh... sir, ATC is insisting we don't have permission to land. Are you... sure you wish to proceed with the landing?"

"Yes, thank you," replied George, clicking the button on his own intercom set on his desk, "my orders are final."

"Wilco," said the pilot, "over and out." Even from here, the hesitation in his voice was palpable.

George looked back at the figure sitting calmly on the chair opposite him, hands together, fingers tented. He was shaking a little, from hearing all the... _things_ she had to say, all the _things_ she had shown him. He'd lived a long and colorful career, but never in his life had he seen or heard anything like this; nor never before had he felt so confused, so downright shaken, like his entire world view had been turned upside down. She could have been lying about the whole thing, but even if there was a grain of truth to anything she had said, it was still shocking to say the least. Oh, he definitely was not going to be sleeping well at all for the next few nights.

"So, after all of this..." he asked, quietly, "you're still helping us?"

"Apart from the fact that I live here?" she replied, taking a sip from the Presidential Bourbon, "certainly. I can promise you one thing, Mr. Vice-President: whatever this 'Imperium Of Man' wants to do to you and all five billion other souls on this world... is a relative kindness compared to what they will do when they find out about me."

As Churchill once said, common enemies made for strange bedfellows... which perturbed the Vice-President even more, thinking about what would happen next should they survive this whole ordeal.

Just then, the telephone rang. He answered it. "George," spoke a familiar voice, "what the hell is going on? I gave you an order."

George sighed. "Uh... sir... Ronny, look... it's a long story..."

"They're telling me now that you've been compromised by the enemy," replied the phone, "that they've got jets and missiles standing by, ready to shoot you down at a moment's notice." He paused. "George, look, I need you to give me one good reason I shouldn't give the order. Please. Just one, but I need it now."

"Honesty is always the best policy," crowed the guest, "go ahead."

"Who is that?" snapped the President, "that's _the spy_ , isn't it?"

"Uh, yes, but not for them," muttered George, "it's complicated. You see..." He began to articulate, best he could, the situation, or rather a heavily watered down version thereof, just enough so that he might believe it. It still didn't roll off the tongue as well as he could have hoped for.

"George, George... my poor friend," said the President, "have you gone out of your mind?"

"Whether you believe me or not, it doesn't matter," said George, looking out the window, "we're on the ground now."

* * *

 **Kowloon Walled City, Kowloon,**  
 **British Dependent Territory Of Hong Kong.**

The KWC was located some three miles away from Chungking Mansions; He sprinted that entire distance in little under ten minutes - through narrow streets, winding alleyways, and traffic congestion, this would have been a miraculous feat for any runner, though of course He was not merely "any runner".

He did not stop once to catch His breath, He did not need to nor did He want to, for each passing second, He could feel the mounting urgency; He was still a mile away and He could already sense the flood of emotions - fear, shock, pain and anguish - spreading out from Ground Zero and across the city like turbulent ripples on a still garden pond... and behind that, He could also sense a different feeling; it was the sheer hatred and anger boiling within several dozen unique individuals who stood out from the rest. It was... unexpected, these... these _people_ , for He could sense that they were Human alright. And beneath it all, there was another _essence_ He could sense, one He could not quite describe - it felt familiar, though whom or what it reminded Him of exactly, He could not quite place.

Who were they? Karl was more determined than ever before to get to the bottom of this, to find out whom these "other humans" were, why had they come. But His immediate concern, first and foremost, was for the lives of millions of innocent bystanders at stake, and He already knew that He would be far too late to save everybody.

He rounded a corner, and beheld the scene before Him. It was every bit as awful seeing it up close and personal with His two physical eyes as it had been sensing it from a distance with His third one.

The KWC was notorious for being the most densely populated place on Earth, some 50,000 people crammed into six acres of shoddily-built apartment blocks built virtually one on top of the other, unplanned, often without the supervision of architects and engineers, and outside the jurisdiction of the city's building codes and sanitation standards. All of these factors had contributed to the spiraling death toll. Entire buildings had collapsed from the shockwave from the impacts, now reduced to piles of rubble. Severed electric cables were flailing about, sparking like mad. Fires were raging out of control, fueled by wooden fixtures and furniture, cheap clothing and cooking gas cylinders.

Karl closed His two eyes and opened His third eye again. Through the darkness, He could see that there were still people alive, buried under tons of ruins and debris - dozens, no, _hundreds_ of them. Men, women, little children...

"You! Sir!" shouted a nearby voice, in accented English. Karl did not need to turn around to see a uniformed officer of the Royal Hong Kong Police Force approaching him, waving at him furiously. "Get out of here! It dangerous!"

Karl appreciated this mortal's concern for His well-being, and of course repaid the favor by ignoring him completely and kept on running. The officer shouted after Him, but did not dare attempt to follow Him as He leapt up into the air, over the top of one of the buildings, and plunged headlong back down into no-man's land, landing on both feet on top of one of the piles of rubble. He looked all around Him; the remaining buildings of the KWC and neighboring districts all rose up surrounding Him like the walls of some post-apocalyptic arena, boxing Him in.

There was a roar up in the sky. Another of these things landing? No, not this time. He looked up to see a large metallic winged object sailing low overhead, lights on its wingtips flashing. It was a passenger jetliner, a... _Lockheed L-1011 TriStar?_ Even at night, He could see clearly in His mind's eye the distinctive green-and-white lines and livery of Cathay Pacific, and more than that. His mind tapped into the aether... _it was Flight CX-066, with 205 passengers and 12 crew members onboard, inbound from Taipei, coming into final approach for landing at nearby Kai Tak Airport_.

 _Oh no..._

 _ **ATATATATATAT!**_ clamored a burst from an automatic weapon of some type, somewhere within the KWC, its owners presumably viewing the civilian jetliner as a threat. Several bullets (if one could call them that, for He could see each and every one of them, and they were more appropriately called small rocket-propelled grenades) peppered the underside of the aircraft's wings in several places and exploded.

Flames spewed from some of the holes. Like a wounded bird, the entire jet began to veer off course, listing to the left.

Again, Karl reached out with His mind, trying to figure out what was wrong. He had always been unnaturally gifted with machines of every conceivable kind - He figured He must have had one of His past lifetimes to thank for that.

Time seemed to grind to a halt as His mind probed every square inch of the distressed jetliner above Him... _though it had been coming in towards the end of the flight with the tanks running on empty, nonetheless residual fuel vapors in both the inboard and outboard portside wing tanks had been ignited. This, however, was far from their biggest problem. One of the detonations had ripped out a three-foot portion of the wing's leading edge, severing vital hydraulic and electrical control lines. Without hydraulic pressure, the leading edge slats had begun to retract, which, at the low speeds they were coming in on for landing, especially for an approach as steep and tricky as that for Kai Tak, had caused the portside wing to go into stall. To compensate, the captain had tried to lock the slats in place, or to increase thrust from the portside engine, but without electrical control, these efforts were in vain_.

All of these He could sense... as well as terror and grief of every person on board, the frantic last-ditch efforts of the flight crew up in the cockpit. Oh boy, this was going to be a challenge.

Karl cracked his fingers, and his neck, and planted his feet firmly into the ground. He extended both arms towards the jet, and focused. _Come on!_ , he thought to himself. _Come on! You are capable of far more than this! I know you are!_

Karl's mind reached out into the aether, summoning whatever strength He could in such urgency, and pushed. There was a deep rumbling that only He could hear. It had been a while since the last time He had performed a feat of this magnitude, and Karl's body tensed and groaned from the strain.

For a moment, it seemed to work; gradually, the aircraft began to lurch back upright again, continuing to glide on a straight path towards the runway. In His mind's eye He could see it clearly, the red approach lights flashing at the end of the runway, so close and yet so far away. Sweat began to percolate on every square-inch of His skin. _Come on! Argh! Come on, almost there..._

Every ounce of His focus was on the distressed airliner, and He did not notice the hostile warrior standing a few hundred feet away from Him taking aim, nor the small projectile flying right at Him, until it was far too late.

Something struck Karl's head, and exploded; it was one of these alien invaders' grenade-bullets. Any ordinary person would have been ripped apart, head to toe, though Karl was "merely" bodily thrown through the air a dozen feet and slammed hard against a brick wall, and then He crumpled onto the ground.

He quickly clambered to his feet; there was a gash on His head, oozing blood, but it began to close up immediately, little wisps of steam rising from it. No, that did not bother Him so much as His concern for the...

He found it again, but it was too late. Just over a kilometer away from where He lay, Flight 66 slammed into a block of apartment buildings, short of the runway.

The psychic outburst was sudden and overwhelming. Karl was stunned as hundreds of voices, everyone on the plane and hundreds more in those buildings too, cried out in fear and pain one final time and then were suddenly silenced. At least physically, for even more paralyzing to Him was how their _souls_ lingered a while longer and continued screaming in the aether, even after death.

Karl clenched His teeth and grabbed His head in both hands. _Argh! Make it stop!_

He did not notice something large stomping up right behind Him until it was upon Him.

It stood, easily eight-foot tall, maybe more, sheathed entirely in thick black armor made of curious metals and other strange materials, that gave it a strength unmatched by any armor He had ever seen or heard of, at least in this lifetime. Its black paint was broken only by two glowing red eyeholes, and two white patches on its shoulder paldrons, bearing a black cross on each one. The being encased within had a presence in the aether like that of a man, and yet unlike it at the same time. _Physically_ , it was much larger, with twice as many bodily organs stuffed into a body that was otherwise almost pure muscle, not a drop of fat anywhere like you would find on a normal person. _Psychically_ , its mind was unlike most other men - tougher, harder, more resilient and determined and right now fixed on only one goal: destroy. If most men's souls were like gold, beautiful and shining but soft and malleable, this... _man's_ (?) was more like steel.

Karl was still on His knees, His head still swimming with the fate of Flight 66, when the figure lunged at him, grasping a six-foot sword that was glowing a fierce bluish-white and crackling with sparks of energy, and drove it right into His side. Karl was lifted off of His feet, and slammed back against the concrete wall behind him.

He cried out in agony, His arms flailing out, pinned against the wall; He could feel the swordpoint driven deep inside Him, sizzling with eldritch energies that could have melted through steel, could feel His own blood in His veins boiling, His liver, lungs, and heart starting to burn; only His incredible strength and willpower kept Him alive.

His assailant, meanwhile, was surprised by the unexpected resistance and durability that Karl displayed, but nonetheless kept pushing, trying to plunge his sword deeper into His side, but found he could not. For the first time, He could sense beneath that iron outer shell of rage kindled feelings of astonishment, confusion, even a slight trace of _fear_.

Between fighting for His life both within and without, Karl was able to perceive little of the immediate area around them. But one small thing, easy to miss, caught His attention. A couple dozen meters away from them, one of the surviving residents of this block, a mother, maybe no more than twenty; she was sobbing as she ran, a little girl of no more than three slung over her shoulder, trying to get away from this war zone as fast as her feet could carry her. The girl looked back and made eye contact with Karl for a moment.

And then a bolt round fired by another one of the attackers, elsewhere in the area, struck the mom, killing her and daughter both.

At this point, He lost it.

Karl felt a burning within like He had rarely felt before, and it wasn't just the glowing power-sword lodged inside Him. It started in His heart or maybe His brain, but it spread almost instantly, like every piece of Him were soaked in oil and set ablaze, and yes, He was conscious for every second of it, could feel it all very well. The sword began to glow white-hot, even _more_ intensely than before.

It was as if every bolt of lightning and energy His body had absorbed, and _more_ even, were suddenly forced back up the sword, and into His attacker. The knight, to his credit, did not relent, but continued pushing forward at Karl, even when arcs of blue lightning began shooting out of every crack and orifice in the knight's armor, between joints and out of the eyeholes, and his entire skeleton could even be seen _glowing_ within.

When at long last He finally stopped, the suit of armor collapsed backwards, charred and blackened and smoking, its occupant within fried to a crisp from inside-out.

Like a lion speared on the hunt (or a tiger, if you prefer), hurt but at its most dangerous, Karl snapped and hollered and roared in a flurry of brute animalistic emotions - anger, pain, but triumph too. He gripped the six-foot sword by the blade, with no regard at all for how deeply it cut and burned into His hands, and yanked it out of Him. Blood and water came gushing out, but within seconds, the gaping hole began to hiss and steam as it closed up. His step twitched and faltered a little; inside, His broken bones and ruptured organs were slowly healing themselves, but it was still excruciating as all hell.

Another knight, not too far away, had taken notice of what had transpired. This one, aware of what had happened to his comrade, kept his distance, took cover, and aimed a large, bulky, heavy-looking gun of some kind at Him. A brilliant, unbroken red lance of light shot forth, right at Him... and missed, striking the wall behind him, where there was a small explosion of plaster and shards of concrete; He would rather not have to go through all that healing again, thank you very much, so He had made this attacker miss on purpose.

The marksman must have been a good shot, for Karl could sense that he was genuinely surprised by the miss. But not for much longer. Effortlessly, He held up His right palm. The knight froze, and was lifted bodily into the air. Karl could feel that this knight too was filled with hatred. But His hatred was far, _far_ stronger. He knew not from whence His strength came - a mix of pent-up rage and frustration from within, or perhaps from feeding off the souls of all those deceased around Him - but with His mind alone He began crushing that armor, as easily as He might crush a Coke can in his hands; its occupant still inside, flattened down into goo. Karl released His grip, and a ton of metal and plastics and body parts compressed down into a dense cube the size of a carry-on bag thudded as it fell back to the ground, leaving a small crater.

That was when He took note of all the other invaders in the area, who had now been alerted to his presence. They were communicating with each other, verbally and over encrypted radio communications, in an alien language, though He could distinguish and understand every word of what all of them were saying...

 _"Battle Brothers! Brothers Longinus and Cassius have fallen! I shalt avenge them!"_

 _"Be warned, we have a psyker in our midst! Marking it on the auspex now!"_

 _"A psyker? PURGE it, in the name of the EMPEROR!"_

Karl was too blinded by rage to stop and wonder who this "Emperor" of theirs was. What He did know was that right now, there were twenty, maybe thirty of these beings, including what looked like two or three bigger ones, all converging on His location.

If He could see Himself now - His sleeves were torn off, His shirt and jacket singed and ripped open down the front to leave His broad chest exposed. And His eyes and hands were _glowing_. "THIS IS _MY_ PLANET!" He shouted, in English and through the aether so mayhaps they might understand Him, "YOU. ARE. ALL. _DEAD_!" And with little regard for His own well-being, He rushed forward, straight at the first wave of attackers charging at Him.


	22. Push It To The Limit

_**Writer's Notes** : thanks to all readers for the continuing positive feedback. You're actually putting me under even more pressure to continue to do justice to the portrayal of the GEOM! Today, before we get into the main chapter, I'd like to take a moment to share one of my inspirations for this story, and answer a question several folks have been asking me. _

_In canon, GEOM's personal name is never given. In this story, I came up with the idea that GEOM has been reincarnated many times over the course of history (as both men and women) and has gone by many names. Basically, in this story, he's kind of like the Avatar. However, as of 1984, his current incarnation is that of a fairly plain young man named Karl. I chose the name "Karl" for several reasons._

 _First and foremost, "Karl" comes from the proto Germanic word Karlaz meaning "man". I like this name because this story focuses less on the "God" and "Emperor" parts of his title, and more on the "Man" part: Karl is relatively young, inexperienced, and emotional compared to his later, older, and far more stoic self. Karl is also much weaker than the Great Crusade Era GEOM, although he is still capable of impressive feats of both physical and psychic strength (and he did defeat the Void Dragon in a previous life, as Saint George)._

 _"Karl" is also the German and/or Scandinavian spelling of the name "Charles", a name he shares with historical figures like Charlemagne, Charles Martel, Charles XII Of Sweden, and Charles V, Holy Roman Emperor. It is also the name of the Emperor from WH Fantasy. You could also, if you wanted, interpret it as a reference to Karl Marx, who once said "religion is the opiate of the masses" (and as we know, the GEOM in 40k canon was actually a proponent of atheism. This is another reason I have reincarnation in this story, as it would explain why the GEOM might have been Christ, Buddha, or Muhammad in one life, and then a dedicated atheist in another life)._

 _Now, onwards with the chapter._

* * *

 **Chapter XXII:**

 **PUSH IT TO THE LIMIT**

 **Somewhere...**

 _Uuuuhhhh_... moaned Tony as he woke up. His head was spinning, like getting over a really bad acid trip. As his vision slowly began to return to clarity, he looked around him. Somehow, he was back in his bedroom, lying on the floor. Every inch of his body ached, and there were deep cuts and bruises all over his arms, chest, and legs, though as he came to, he could see all of these had been treated - the deepest ones had been stitched, while the others at least had some kind of ointment applied.

Tony looked around him. On his bed, he could see Daisy there, unconscious now, and standing above her, a soldier. Tony rubbed his eyes to get a better look. The soldier must have been a medic, because he was at work treating Daisy's wounds from earlier, and had a white circular patch with a red cross on his shoulder. That should have been a relief to Tony, except that the rest of the soldier's get-up was confusing: fatigues in no camo pattern that Tony could recognize, and on top of that, armor. And not a mere bulletproof vest, mind you, but a full suit of body armor, chestplate, shoulder pads, leg guards, the works. Maybe he was special forces?

Tony heard talking right next to him, in a language he could not understand, followed by a hiss of static and walkie-talkie chatter. He turned around and saw another soldier, dressed similarly to the medic, standing guard at his door; apparently, he must have been radioing his comrades that Tony had come around. Who the hell were these guys? The National Guard? And what language were they speaking, some kind of special secret code?

"Tony!" shouted a familiar voice. He looked up to see Lance entering the room, escorted by two more of the soldiers. Lance continued: "Tony, it's alright, these are friendly aliens! Or, at least, I think they are; they saved us from Choza's men, and they haven't killed us yet!"

"Lance," groaned Tony, equal parts confused and relieved, " _mi hermano_. What... happened? I thought I told you to take the red Lambo and drive the hell outta here."

"They blocked the driveway," admitted Lance, sheepishly, "Lambo's fast but it can't climb or smash through obstacles."

 _Remind me to get a car that can do that next time_ , thought Tony.

Their little reunion was interrupted when one of the soldiers marched up to Tony and began making commands to him in their foreign language, and gesticulating wildly. Enough with the small talk, he wanted something.

"I think he wants you to come speak to their commander," said Lance.

* * *

 **Off-Ramp of Interstate 395,**  
 **Arlington, Commonwealth Of Virginia.**

"Alright, clear!" shouted Officer Hightower, as he handed the I.D. card back to the driver, and stepped back from the U.S. Army M809 truck. The driver thanked him, rolled up his window, and continued on his way; the truck lurched and rumbled through the check-point, a dual-launch platform on its back mounting a pair of brand new and gnarly-looking MIM-104 Patriot missiles - just two of dozens, along with hundreds of older Hawks and Chapparals that were being set up around here and throughout the city; the entire metro area was being transformed into a fortress.

A dozen feet away, Sgt. Jackson Powell was seated in the driver's seat of their Plymouth Gran Fury patrol car. Beside him, the obese form of Officer Conklin was noisily and greedily stuffing his face with a jelly doughnut from a Dunkin' Donuts 12-pack perched on his lap; Powell had called him out on it when they left the precinct, but Conklin had insisted that if this was the apocalypse, then these could be the last ones he would ever enjoy.

This section of the I-395 had been closed off for security reasons. To the north, Powell could see the massive hulking shape of the Pentagon, like an indomitable fortress just a few hundred feet away from them, and beyond that, the spire of Washington Monument rising up like a defiant sword. All around them was a flurry of activity as Army, Military Police, as well as the Metropolitan police too were setting up a security perimeter. The sky above them buzzed with dozens of helicopters, but no planes to be seen anywhere; the nearby Washington National Airport had been shut down, all commercial flights grounded.

Even though they were actually now in Arlington, across the river, and therefore outside of the jurisdiction of the Metro Police, Sgt. Powell, Officers Hightower and Conklin, and dozens of others in their division had been called in to assist with the ongoing cordon efforts. The radioset in their car buzzed with chatter; there was widespread looting going on, gang violence and shoot-outs, car accidents, and so on.

"See that?" said Powell, as Hightower climbed into the backseat of the car. He pointed at one group of choppers making its way over river at that moment, "they're evacuating everything over to Mount Weather. Including the Declaration Of Independence."

"Hey, I guess to stop the bad guys stealing it, right?" joked Conklin, nervously.

An awkward momentary silence fell over the three men.

"We're gonna be... _nuked_ , aren't we?" asked Hightower.

"Now, now, I'm sure this is just standard procedure for a situation like this," said Powell, though he couldn't help but feel precisely that at the back of his mind. For if that were indeed the case... Sgt. Powell just didn't know what to do. Rose would be at home right now, all the way up in the Adams Morgan neighborhood. Their daughter Cathy would have been in school when all of this started, though they were all supposed to have been evacuated by now. Truth be told, given the chance, he wanted to drop everything there and then, take the squad car and rush home. Maybe this was the end of the world, Judgment Day and all that. And if it was, he wanted nothing else than to be with his wife and daughter. But he also had a duty as well to fulfill, as a sworn officer of the District Of Columbia Metropolitan Police Department.

That's when he noticed a woman just walking past them, not stopping once. "Hey! Excuse me!" shouted Powell, opening his door. "This is a restricted area! Ma'am, show me your I.D.!"

The woman ignored him, and kept on walking. Powell took a good glance at her; high-heeled leather boots that extended all the way up to the thigh (how did she even bend her knees in that thing?), and then a bright blue spandex skintight bodysuit that covered everything else; a tight pink leather jacket on top encrusted with rhinestones and glitter, and an orange baseball cap over locks of long curly, dirty blonde hair, and sunglasses. Powell had seen some pretty questionable get-ups that kids these days called "fashionable", but this was just plain ridiculous.

"Damn tourist, must think this is funny," snarled Powell as he clambered out of the car and stood up. "Hey! You! Ma'am, stop!"

"Sir," warned Hightower, worried, "I think... she could be one of _them_."

Powell stared at Hightower and Conklin for a moment. Shit. "If that's the case..." He went around back and opened the trunk of the patrol car, and pulled out his trusty Mossberg 590A 12-gauge shotgun. He pumped it, loading a fresh shell into the chamber. "Hightower, come with me. Conklin, you stand guard here. Keep your walkie-talkie on; if... if... if something happens to us, call for backup."

"Will do, sarge," replied Conklin, visibly quivering as he grabbed another sugar-frosted treat from the box and chomped down on it.

Powell and Hightower set off after the intruder, who was already a hundred feet ahead of them turning a corner behind one of the concrete embankments supporting the overpass above them. They quickened their pace but by the time they got there, she was gone. Powell had a bad feeling about this.

* * *

 **Cheyenne Mountain,**  
 **Near Colorado Springs, State Of Colorado.**

The tram lumbered forwards along its tracks through the dark tunnel, deeper and deeper into the ancient billion-year-old core of the Rockies. All the while, Dr. Martin Brinner explained to his guests just where were they going.

"During World War Two, the Nazis attempted to tap into the Human psychic potential, to weaponize it, or to use it to accelerate Humanity's evolution into the Aryan Race," he began. "Our government found out about these projects, through liberated camps and ex-Nazis who defected to our side. With the rise of the Iron Curtain and the knowledge that the Reds too would be carrying out their own work in the field of practical psionics, we saw little choice but to continue their work."

"MK Ultra," spat Dr. Geller, bitterly.

Brinner said nothing but continued. "Early on, it became apparent that the primary method by which these... 'psykers' (as our German scientists called them) were able to transcend the physical limitations of our world was by tapping into a different dimension as their source of power, one not bounded by the same rules of physics. Then, just a couple years after the war, we got a break when, by pure chance, we acquired specimens both biological and technological that greatly accelerated our work."

"Roswell," coughed Geller, "everyone knows about that."

"You know, I have to say it," blurted General Berenger, frankly, "you people are the worst at keeping secrets."

"We keep secrets just fine," shrugged Brinner, "with any large event or ongoing project, where many, many people are involved, it is logistically impossible to keep it a total secret in perpetuity. So instead, we just let people talk and threw in rumors and misinformation of our own." He turned to Geller. "Let me guess, all those stories, they were always about the same thing, right? Little Green Men in flying saucers?"

"More or less."

"Exactly. Our deception worked," said Brinner, matter-of-factly, "everyone knows they found _something_ at Roswell. No-one has a clue what they _actually_ found."

The tram pulled into a large cavernous station, and ground to a halt. The door slid open, and Brinner stepped out. Receiving them was a group of a half-dozen people standing on the platform - there were soldiers in black ops gear with no insignia of any kind indicating what branch they came from, and a scientist in a white lab coat, beard, and glasses.

"Ah, Dr. Brinner! You're back," said the scientist, but then noticed Geller and the General getting off the tram behind him. "Do they have a security clearance?"

"No need for concern," said Brinner, "the General's with the Air Force, and the civilian works for us now. They're both subject to standard military non-disclosure protocols."

"Still, I think this should have gone through Colonel O'Neal first," cautioned the scientist.

Brinner acknowledged his colleague's concerns, but regardless proceeded to lead the General and Dr. Geller through the airlock at the end of the platform. He continued: "Frankly, I think they wasted a lot of time, focusing almost exclusively on developing Human psionics throughout the 50's and 60's. Most of those ended in failure. The real Holy Grail, I think, is the possibility of inter-dimensional travel. At the time, they were too small-minded, looking only for a weapon for war; but that's nothing compared to the prospect of having entirely new worlds to explore, new resources to exploit, and a vehicle by which to spread The American Way above and beyond this little blue planet of ours.

"To that end, we've began working on this particular project not long after the last of MK-Ultra was finally shut down in '73. We started out at Montauk National Laboratory, under the guise of developing a cold fusion reactor for the Dept. Of Energy, but then Three Mile Island happened, and the public's support for nuclear power waned. It became a little politically inconvenient for the DoE to continue accommodating our budget. So we moved here and hid under the Air Force instead. Honestly, with the ballooning defense budget these last few years, it became easier to conceal all of our procurements and requisitions. That, and we also realized that working deep within the Rockies provided a far more secure environment. And safer too; in the event of a runaway reaction, we have explosive charges built into the ceiling, designed to bring millions of tons of rock crashing down and smothering it.

"Initially, based on our current rate of work, we estimated that we would not have a working portal up and running until between ten and fourteen years from now - that's sometime between 1994 and 1998 (that's not accounting for anticipated advancements in computing power, but we decided we would rather be realistic and not make even our most optimistic estimates contingent on an unmet condition). However, with the valuable data we've collected from today's observations, we may have the information we need to complete the necessary calculations well ahead of schedule."

They emerged from the airlock and out onto a balcony overlooking the main cavern, where they were greeted by a most astonishing sight.

The far end of the cavern was dominated by five large gantries arranged in a circle, each bristling with antennae and what looked like oversized Tesla coils. A forest of cables connected the five towers to one another, and then to various other devices spread throughout the room; bizarre machines that looked like the lovechild of an electrical transformer and a jet engine; rows of workstations and control panels covered in dials and buttons and switches, that looked like something out of NASA Mission Control; banks of CRT monitors displaying lines of code and wireframe graphics; and towered computer mainframes, covered in blinking yellow and red lights and whirring magnetic tapes. A dozen scientists in white labcoats milled about, while more special black ops soldiers stood guard.

"General Berenger, my dear Dr. Geller, welcome... to the Arrowhead Project," announced Brinner, beaming with pride.

There was a long pause.

"You're not impressed?" smirked Brinner.

"I was expecting an actual, you know, _gate_ ," mumbled the General, "like a door in the wall you just walk through."

"Most people do," explained Brinner, "but do recall my earlier analogy, where we had a circular hole in a two-dimensional representation of the universe. Well, what's a circle in three-dimensions? A sphere." He pointed at the towers. "When activated, high-energy lasers will focus their beams on a single point. With a sufficient concentration of energy, we'll..."

"Wait just a darn minute here. You have _lasers_?" blurted the General, angrily, "we coulda been using that technology for our fighter jets by now! Coulda saved the lives of dozens of servicemen! Damn it, we could have had them in space too by now, giving our nation the impenetrable shield we need against the Reds!"

"Yes and no," said Brinner, calmly, "the biggest limiting factor on the practical application of lasers in the field is finding a sufficient power source. This entire facility requires its own dedicated nuclear plant; equipping our aircraft and satellites with the kind of weapons you're thinking of just isn't possible with current available batteries. Though that may change after today, seeing as these invaders seem to have it figured out." The General still looked sullen and dissatisfied with Brinner's explanation, so instead he turned to Geller.

"It's impressive, no doubt there," admitted Geller, "it's just that... well, you see, I couldn't help but notice some glaring flaws in the architecture of your realspace containment modulator."

"It's a work in progress," shrugged Brinner.

"A work in progress?" pushed Geller, "good sir, you can't casually go hopping off into new dimensions without a working realspace containment modulator. That would've been the _first_ thing I would have built. In fact, I already..."

"Hang up just a minute here," snapped the General, confused, "what the hell is this thing you're talking about?"

Geller straightened his glasses. "When traveling through Warpspace (remember: "the space between spaces"), you need to maintain a bubble of realspace around you as a protective buffer against the more unpleasant reality-warping effects of direct exposure to Warpspace. I call this shield, for honest want of a better name, a 'Geller Field'." Dr. Geller pulled out his trusty if tattered notebook, opened to a clean page, and began drawing a simplified diagram upon it for the General's benefit. "In order to maintain this bubble, you need two separate devices, one capable of generating a constant stream of gravitons, and one capable of magnetically manipulating said stream into a usable shape. Of course, in practice, you need additional things too - a sufficient power source, for one. Maybe also a..."

"Look, that's all fine and dandy," interrupted the General, "but first I really need to ask, both of you: what exactly is the point of all this? We planning to send a team through that... whatever _that_ thing is, to wherever _they_ came from?"

"That's the gist of it," muttered Brinner, "right now, we don't know who or what exactly these alien invaders are, or whether there's more of them coming. We know they came to us with hostile intent, because they attacked our major cities without provocation. We know they are capable of inter-dimensional travel, because that's how they came here. And we know they're Human, which means there must be other Human-inhabited worlds out there, in the multiverse. But that's it. For all we know, the ones here on Earth right now could be only just the scouting party, and given how much hell they're giving our forces already... sure, we have other DARPA cells working right now on reverse-engineering their weapons, but that'll all be for nothing if they can just swamp us with sheer numbers."

"I don't like the sound of any of this," sighed the General. "But I guess we don't have a choice. We can't defeat an enemy we don't understand. Very well. But promise me one thang, will ya? That you two stop squabbling like little kids. Frankly, it's embarrassing. Brinner! If Geller here says you need something, I suggest you follow up on it! If we're gonna be boldly going where no man's gone before, I'd rather we take every damn precaution first."

Brinner glared at the General. "My orders come from..."

"Fuck your orders. This is Air Force turf; far as I know, y'all are just squatters here. You can bring it up with SecDef if you want."

Geller too protested. "General, look, I'm a private citizen, you can't just force me to work for you, that's unconstitutional."

"I'll see you in court then," retorted the General. "Lieutenant! Find this gentleman a workstation. And see how soon can we fly in the rest of his team from New York."

* * *

 **Offramp Of The I-395,**  
 **Arlington, Commonwealth Of Virginia.**

"You're back!" scarfed Officer Conklin, crumbs falling from his mouth, "oh God, I was so worried there for a bit."

Sgt. Powell said nothing as he and Hightower returned to the patrol car, but immediately grabbed the mouthpiece for the radio, and spoke. "Calling all units, calling all units, this is One-Zero-One-Zero. Over. Calling all units, this is One-Zero-One-Zero. We have a Ten-Thirty-Three in progress. Suspicious individual, evading pursuit."

"Sarge, do you hear that?" asked Hightower, concerned.

Powell ignored him and continued: "suspect is armed and dangerous. Advising all units to be on the lookout for a female, white, about six-foot..."

Just then, there was a big explosion from somewhere near them. Powell instinctively ducked. "Shit! What was that?"

* * *

 **Kowloon Walled City, Kowloon,**  
 **British Dependent Territory Of Hong Kong.**

He hadn't wanted to kill anyone here today, not really, not if it could be avoided. But they had forced His hand; they had come to this world - His world - from wherever hence they had came, their minds hellbent only on sowing death and destruction. Whether it was these emotions burning in their mind, or the anguish and pain of all their victims, or His own internal pain and torment, He had been driven over the edge to a place He had seldom visited before - at least, again, in this lifetime.

They all opened fire at him at once, hundreds and hundreds of those miniature rocket-propelled grenades, all flaring at Him. He held up both hands. The bullets all stopped in mid-air, hanging there like a cloud of metal and flame. And then, each bullet began to rotate slowly, turning 180 degrees, until they were pointing back at its point of origin. And then, as suddenly as they had stopped, each bullet accelerated again. In an instant, an entire firing line of the invaders were caught in a barrage of their own ordnance; their armor was thick and built with weapons of these caliber and greater in mind, but against the sheer weight of firepower that they themselves had put into the air, at least some of the rounds were guaranteed to penetrate.

His third eye alerted him to a new attacker, charging Him from the rear; while His focus had been on the firing line, one of their number had attempted to go around and outflank Him, rushing Him whilst swinging a... _chainsword_? In His mind's eye, He could see clearly the inner workings of such a device - apart from the alien materials and monomolecular sharpness of the blades and the different power source it utilized, it was otherwise in principle very much the same as any normal woodworking chainsaw. Very well then.

There was a metallic **_snap_** as the chain broke, and then it seemed to come alive like a thrashing serpent, pulling itself free from the sword, slithering up the knight's arm, and then wrapping itself tightly around its wielder's neck. Finding the weakpoint in the joints between the helm and the neck-plates, the chain began to spin, slicing through metal and flesh both, sending sparks flying and blood spurting.

Elsewhere, another of the knights was taking aim at him, this time with a different type of ranged weapon. Even in His rage, Karl's affinity for machines afforded Him a brief glimpse into its inner workings... _it was a plasma-based weapon, one that operated on the principle of exposing charged particles to so much energy that the bonds between electrons and nuclei became weakened, and the electrons would freely flow through the plasma as a current just like through a metal. The motion of the free electrons could emit truly heroic amounts of energy, both as heat and light, and when directed through magnetic coils at a foe, grievous damage would result. But even with such advanced technology as these invaders commanded, such weapons were dangerously prone to overheating and catastrophic failure_. That gave Him an idea.

The knight aimed, and fired. Within the gun's firing chamber, electromagnetic coils rapidly accelerated hydrogen ions into a torus, faster and faster, until they were to be discharged in His direction. However, instead of releasing as it should have, the weapon failed to discharge; instead the torus kept spinning faster and faster until it overheated, and then burst out of its containment cell in a shower of ions with a temperature hotter than the surface of a star. The armored hand that held it - indeed, its entire arm - melted from the sheer heat. The plasma then quickly began to disperse and cool down upon contact with the outside; Karl however, reached out again through aether, gathered it all back up again into a ball, and forced it into the breach in the armor. The incredible heat vaporized the rest of the occupant within.

* * *

 **Not too far away...**

"What the hell is going on?" barked Commissar Emry.

"It's a psyker, sir!" responded Pvt. Modeen, looking up from the vox caster, "it's... it's completely tearing the Templars apart!"

"By the Throne!" exclaimed Corporal Baldwyn, "must be an Alpha-level!"

If Commissar Emry felt any trepidation, his face never showed it. "We will hold this position, here," he grunted, sternly. "Get the lascannon set up! On the double!"

Nothing had gone right since they'd landed on this world. Pvt. Modeen and his heavy weapons platoon were supposed to be deploying in support of three light infantry platoons to capture and hold a planethead in the forests outside Iskandria Spaceport. Instead, they had landed here, in this urban slum, enclosed on all sides by high-rise habitation blocks, and alongside the Templars of all people.

Modeen had a healthy admiration for the Astartes, for the number of times he had seen them deploy in battle alongside the men of the New Cadians - which was why it was shocking hearing now that something was tearing through the ranks of the Emperor's very own angels like a hot power-sword through the pages of a particularly damp copy of the _Imperial Infantryman's Uplifting Primer_.

True to their crack training, it took only seconds for Pvt. Harliss to come up from the rear and snap open the tripod slung over his back, but it felt like years. Meanwhile, two more men came in, lugging the heavy cannon between them, half-throwing it onto the tripod platform; it snapped into place. Pvt. Donofryo was the last, the hefty power cell slung over his right shoulder, the thick connecting cable wound up in a coil, hanging from his belt.

"Whatever comes through those ruins, you WILL stand your ground, like the Emperor's loyal servants you are!" growled Emry.

"I see it!" hollered Pvt. Kevyn, scoping out the scene from his vantage point on the third floor of a ruined apartment block beside them, "enemy psyker, three o'clock!"

The most horrifying thing about this enemy psyker was just how... _plain_ he looked. Pvt. Modeen had fought and survived his share of campaigns; his lascannon team had faced down Orks, 'Nidz, hell, they'd even survived a brush with the Crimson Slaughter traitor marines, or an armored assault by the traitor regiments of the Lost And The Damned, and always thanks to their trusty lascannon, able to put a hole in just about anything that moved in this Emperor-forsaken galaxy. At some point, they used to joke that she'd been blessed by the Emperor himself, that she, to use a New Cadian proverb, "always rolled a six".

But this... _thing_ that his eyes now beheld, it looked like an ordinary man (or what an ordinary man would look like if his eyes and fists were set on fire) in simple clothing and unruly hair. That alone was profoundly disturbing and made the hairs on the back of Modeen's neck stand on edge; its monstrosity lay not in its appearance, but what it was capable of doing.

Beside him, Donofryo had set down the power cell; his hands now fumbled with the thick cable, eventually clicking the cord into the slot on the side of the cannon. There was a humming sound as the cannon's capacitors charged, and the indicator light flashed red. "Ready!" he declared, tapping Modeen on the back of the helmet.

And not a second too soon...

"Aim!" ordered the Commissar.

"No, still charging!" said Modeen; the indicator light was still flashing red. _C'mon! C'mon!_ , he thought, sweating profusely now. He could hear the cries from Pvt. Kevyn, as their spotter was bodily yanked head first out from his vantage point by forces unseen, and plummeted to the ground.

"Charged!" declared Modeen; the indicator had turned green.

"Fire!" yelled Commissar Emry.

Modeen squeezed the trigger. In an instant, a solid, unbroken lance of red light appeared, connecting the barrel of their trusty lascannon with the thing in the distance, accompanied by the hissing and screaming of air around the beam rapidly expanding and contracting from the heat.

And then, it was all over. A couple hundred feet away, the psyker's body lay on the ground, smoking.

The whole squad stood still, quiet 'cept for their labored panting and breathing, as well as the shouts, cries, and sirens from the city around them.

"Is it... _dead_?" asked Corporal Baldwyn.

To answer his question, the figure promptly stood up again, back on its feet, and turned to face them. A circular hole had been burned clean through its belly, such that Modeen could see right through it, but before long, the hole began to close.

"Emperor almighty," swore Modeen. Beside him, Donofryo fell to his knees.

"Stand firm, you lout!" seethed Emry, sword held high, "we will stand and die like true... _aaarrrgh_!" Those were the Commissar's last words before he did just that, his face turning blank, his eyes widened, and blood and liquified brain matter oozing out of his tear-ducts and nostrils in rivulets. The Commissar slumped over the las's barrel. But Pvt. Modeen and the others did not have to enjoy the sight of this for too much longer, before they too were likewise dispatched.

* * *

 **A little while later...**

Karl only calmed down once His awakened senses told Him there was little left living in the immediate area. Most of the civilians who could had fled, leaving only the dead, the dying, or those trapped under rubble.

His vision returned to normal. He was breathing heavily, His heart pounding like mad, His skin, smooth and perfect before, now covered in sweat and grime and blood and freshly healed scars. He was completely bare-chested, His shirt and jacket ripped, torn to shreds, and burnt in the melee, though somehow, His jeans and sneakers had survived. He could even feel the weight of Coolie's (now His) Walkman and headphones, still clipped on His belt - how it had survived with only minor dents and scratches was anyone's guess.

All around him lay the dead and dying, all in varying states of dismemberment. There were hundreds of men, women, and children too, even dogs and cats, all sprawled out across the field of rubble and partially collapsed buildings; these had been the inhabitants of this district before the heavens themselves had opened up to rain death and desolation upon them.

And there were the larger bodies of the invaders mixed among them, some still in their armor, others with their armor stripped off them completely in His rage. Looking at one, it was disturbing just how... Human they looked and felt. If one took away those oversized muscles and all those additional organs stuffed into their torachic cavities, they could have been ordinary men. Looking at one close up, Karl almost felt a strange sense of kinship with them He could not explain nor understand - perhaps it was because they, like Him, were Human and yet more than Human at the same time?

In front of Him lay one of the bigger ones - a large, boxy robot-thing that had plodded ponderously along before Karl had disabled it. As far as He could sense, it was the only one still in any state one could call "alive", even if that. Karl stomped right up to the front of that robot-thing, and gripped either side of the front-most metal panel. He was a fairly normal-sized man, but still He tore that slab, almost a ton in weight, clean off its hinges, held it above His head for a second, and then threw it aside. The panel clanged to the ground several feet away from Him.

Within the box, entangled within a nest of wiring and tubing, lay what looked like a half-rotten corpse suspended upright within its techno-sarcophagus, shriveled, its ribs visibly protruding out from under sickly yellow skin, its eyes a solid milky-white. Pieces of wiring and feeding tubes stuck out of every orifice, or out of cuts in its joints, and it was dripping with leaking life-support fluid. It should by every right have been dead, though whatever arcane machinery within kept it alive, both physically, and in the aether as well, if barely.

Karl almost felt sorry for this pathetic creature; not even in death could he find solace and peace. Rather than let him rest in peace, he had been exhumed and integrated into whatever this thing, this... _Dreadnought_ (?) was meant to be. Karl loomed right in front of it, until His face hovered just a few inches in front of its, those dead eyes staring right into His.

"Before you die," He hissed, with a voice that could have chilled the air around Him, "I want to know: who are you? Why did you come here?"

The corpse, predictably, said nothing, which Karl kind of expected. Instead, He placed both of His hands on either of its shoulders, and leaned in, touching His forehead to its. _Now to find out where you truly come from_...


	23. Nightmares (Are Made Of This)

_**Writer's Notes:** based on public reviews and private messages I have received from some of the readers, here and on the other website as well, it looks like readers are divided between those who support this alternative version of the GEOM as a fresh and unique take on the character, and those who oppose it because it's a little different from canon. Just roll with it. Instead of expending time and energy litigating this issue, let's move on - this next chapter is a big one and there's lots to cover here. But be warned: the final part gets pretty weird and abstract. **  
**_

* * *

 **Chapter XXIII**

 **NIGHTMARES (ARE MADE OF THIS)**

 **The Pentagon,**  
 **Arlington, Commonwealth Of Virginia.**

The hallway looked more like a mix of a triage center and a morgue. Sgt. Powell and Hightower looked on as emergency first responders and search & rescue personnel hurried back and forth through the gruesome scene; the wounded were carried out on stretchers, moaning or crying from the pain, or treated where they lay, sometimes difficult to tell apart from the dead. Clouds of dust and smoke hung low in the hallways, giving an acrid smell of death and wanton destruction hanging in the air.

It was hard at that moment to tell how many had been caught up by the blast, and how many more had been felled by the enemy agent's own hand. What was known though was this: even if all the most important staff and officials of the DOD had been evac'ed, the Pentagon was still the workplace of, on any given day, over 24,000 employees - military and civilian, from the Secretary himself down to the lowest minimum-wage janitors. There was no way in hell all of them had gotten out before the attack began.

A few minutes later, Powell and Hightower arrived at the entrance to the central security-control room for this sector of the building. Two burly looking soldiers were standing guard. They showed their badges to the soldiers, who then proceeded to perform a pat-down search... only this one was a little more, ahem, _intimate_ than Powell was used to. Beside him, Hightower too was caught by surprise.

"Uh," interjected Powell, "so... new security measures, or you just happy to see me?"

"Don't think I enjoy this as much as you do," spat one of the soldiers, "enemy agent's a woman, and a master of disguise, apparently. Gotta check every little thang now, and I mean _everythang_. Right, move along, before y'all give me AIDS or somethin'."

"It's 'cause we're black, isn't it?" lamented Hightower, when they were through the door and out-of-earshot.

"Nah, I'm sure everyone's now getting the same pat-down," said Powell, reassuringly, though he seriously had to wonder too: if this enemy spy really was _that_ skilled in deception, then logically, if she was disguised as a guy wouldn't she also take the trouble to get a, you know...

Inside the security room, he found one of the walls completely covered in CRT monitors, hooked up to the building's vast closed circuit television network. There was an audio-feed too, which would switch every few seconds between one of the thousands of little microphones hidden throughout the buildings. A balding man dressed in grey fatigues, a bulletproof vest, and a grey field cap was seated, glaring at the screens. Powell approached him and pulled out his badge. "Sgt. Powell, Metro Police. You called?"

"Agent Corman, FBI Special Agent In Charge," replied the officer, getting up, "where's the rest of your backup?"

"You're lookin' at it," admitted Powell, "every other officer we can spare is either down helping with the injured, or off on whatever little wild goose chase is going on right now."

"God willing, this little 'wild goose chase' will be over soon," muttered Corman. He sat back down and continued glaring at the screens.

"Colonel, what exactly happened?" asked Powell, pulling up a chair next to him.

"Stupid bitch hijacked a pair of truck-launched Patriots and fired them right at the south concourse of E-Ring," growled the Colonel through clenched teeth, "they were proximity-fused, so they blew well before hitting the structure, but the spray went everywhere. Argh! I swear to God, we're gonna track down this agent and put her down for good like the rabid bitch she is."

"Wait, one agent... did all of _that_?" said Powell, glancing at one of the screens showing a live-feed from one of the cameras mounted along the exterior. The building itself looked fine, although if one looked more closely, one could make out a roughly circular area on the south-facing edifice, the one facing the parking lot, wherein all the windows had been shattered, as well as small pieces of twisted metal embedded in the concrete. People directly inside those offices, or standing below, moving between the entrance and the parking lot, got caught in a shower of lethal shrapnel. Helicopters buzzed above the scene, while the sirens and lights of emergency vehicles flashed and wailed. If one agent had done all of _this_... Powell dreaded to imagine what was going on right now down in Richmond, where an invasion by an _entire army_ was in progress.

The Colonel nodded reluctantly. "This enemy agent's some kind of highly lethal assassin out to take out the whole government one by one. Think James Bond on steroids or something. We don't stop her right here, right now, God knows where she'll head next. You know, the President's about to make his speech to the nation."

Powell took a look at the other TV screens, expecting one of them to be tuned into the news. One of them caught his attention; it wasn't the news, but it was a live-feed from elsewhere in the building, showing a group of armed men navigating their way through one of the hallways. Except one of them was not like the others. "Who's that?"

"Some other special agent," grunted Corman, "came here with special orders, from Veep himself. That's all I was told. If you wanna ask him yourself, be my guest."

* * *

 **Not too far away...**

The hallways and corridors of the world's largest office building stretched on and on, like an enormous labyrinth. The emergency lights were all on, bathing the darkened hallways in a spooky, red light. Warning strobes were flashing in some of the passageways. Every corner they would find another body or two, horribly mutilated, lying in a pool of their own blood. These were just normal people like you or me, going about their job before they met their untimely end at the hands of whatever it was they were now coming after. It was like being trapped in some gigantic haunted house or something.

Pvt. Oliver Fromm, 74th Troop Command of the D.C. Army National Guard, an M16 and a flashlight in his hands, stopped for a moment and nervously looked behind him. They were a motley bunch, the lot of them, a rag-tag assortment of some thirty men from across the Army, Marines, Navy, FBI, US Marshals, and both the Arlington and DC Police Departments - like some sheriff's posse out of the days of the Old West out to go chase down a bandit, all of them in different outfits, toting different guns, but all united by a common goal. They weren't exactly the best nor the brightest of their respective branches of service, but they were whoever was immediately available on such short notice, and so for better or worse, this mission had fallen to them.

"Stay frosty," barked Sgt. Matthews, "bitch could be anywhere." Matthews was Army, like Oliver, though from the 3rd Infantry Battalion. And he wasn't the highest-ranking in their little group either, but he had the most combat experience and certainly the loudest voice, so he was their _de facto_ squad leader.

Well, _de facto_ second-in-command, for the real leader was the civvie right up in front of them, strutting right in front of them without fear or falter in her pace; somehow always keeping ahead of them even if she was wearing high-heels. It was kind of unnerving to Oliver - he just wasn't used to following a woman around, and especially not in such a bizarre and frightening situation as the one now facing him.

"Sorry, ma'am," said Oliver, trotting along right behind her, "but... who are you? What're we doing exactly?"

"Private!" snapped the Sarge, "no questions!"

"It's perfectly fine, sergeant," replied the woman, calmly, pausing to turn around. "If you're putting your lives on the line, you have a right to know why. Tell me, Private Oliver Fromm: would you believe me if I told you that these 'alien invaders' are actually Humans from the 40th millennium, thousands of years into the future? That Humanity of the far future is united under a single government that commands a vast galactic empire, lasers and hyperdrives and everything? A great and powerful nation, but nevertheless one under constant siege from without and within by aliens, internal rebellion, and other enemies that could appropriately be described as the things nightmares are made of? That in response to such threats, Humanity has adopted harsh, cruel, and extreme measures, some of which would make the Soviet Union appear positively benign by comparison? That one particular branch of their security forces, the so-called 'Ordo Chronos', are capable of time-travel, and are thus tasked with dispatching agents to police various periods of history? That I may be a member of such organization? That if we can track down this assassin, I may be able to talk her down, as well as convince her compatriots elsewhere to stand down and cease their attacks?"

"Uh..." gulped Oliver, not knowing what to make of it. He looked to the other Army guys nearest him, as if any of them had any better idea than he.

"Don't look at me, man, I only work here," muttered Pvt. Paxton.

"So you're like some kinda... _time cop from outer space_?" muttered one of the Marines in the group, an M60-gunner who went by Pvt. Goldstein.

"Jesus, this sounds like some real _Valerian & Laureline_ type shit right here!" quipped another in the group, whom Oliver could not recall the name of.

"Who the hell are Valerie and Laura?"

"It's like _Star Wars_ made by Frenchies, with time travel."

"Ugh, that sounds awful!"

"Hey man, after today, I'm prepared to believe just about anything's possible."

"Isn't this the kinda crap we should really be calling Delta Force for? The Green Berets? Navy SEALs?"

"Yeah, but they're all down in Richmond or Miami or over in Cali right now."

"Don't forget Dallas."

" _Quiet, everyone!_ " snapped the Sarge.

"What are you afraid of?" asked the mysterious time-cop lady, hovering right in front of Oliver, her piercing eyes, a full foot above his, peering right down into him as if staring into his very soul. Oliver shifted uncomfortably; this was awkward.

"Everything," he blurted, truthfully. He didn't know why he said that, he just couldn't help himself. "I'm... I'm sorry. It's just..." He knew that as a soldier, sworn to defend his country 'til Kingdom Come, he really should've been handling himself far better than this. But whether it was all this pent-up angst since this whole damn invasion had started, or something else entirely, he just started to let it all loose. "It's just... you know... I never signed up for any of this! I mean, fuck! It's like Armageddon out there, the last battle, and we're here on some demon hunt but really, it's just biding time until we all inevitably die! And horribly! And, and, and...!"

" _Shut up,_ private!" snapped the Sarge, red in the face. "What the hell's gotten into you?!"

"It's fine, Sergeant, I'm the one who asked," said the time-cop lady, calmly, "let him vent. Honestly, I think he speaks for all of us right now." She gently placed a hand on his shoulder, in what he supposed was supposed to be a display of camaraderie. "Which is why you should know this, Pvt. Fromm: what happens now in the next few minutes could make a difference for millions of people around the globe. We might end this war now, today, or we may fail, but we'll never know unless we have the courage to at least try. So, knowing this, are you still with me?"

"Yeah," mumbled Oliver, feeling a little better all of a sudden. He couldn't quite place it, but maybe it was just the act of knowing they could be seeing the light at the end of the tunnel soon enough, and then this whole nightmare would be over for everyone. "I... I've got your back, ma'am."

"We done with the damn therapy session here?" said one of the Marines.

"Wait a minute, why are _we_ here?" asked Pvt. Goldstein, "if this bad guy's supposed to be your friend?"

"God damn it, are we all asking questions now?!" fumed Sgt. Matthews, exasperated.

"It helps to be prepared for every situation," she replied, curtly. She stopped, and held her hand up, motioning for silence. She looked to the ceiling, and then down the hallway to their right. "This way," she beckoned.

* * *

 **Nearby...**

Lurking in the steel girders and rafters high above the floor, like some giant spider lurking in the center of her web, Operative D'halia Qwen'zel squatted down on her haunches, and took in all of her surroundings. This particular hall must have been the main feasting and messroom of this castle. It was empty right now, but many lunch trays and whole meals were still laying out upon the rows of tables and benches below her, no doubt discarded by their owners when the invasion began, several hours ago. At one end of the mess hall, she noted the presence of several coin-operated drinks dispensing machines, some bearing that white-and-red sigil that bore the words "COCA-COLA" - the only colorful item of note.

This concrete fortress, this "Pentagram" as they seemed to call it... it was by far the largest, grandest, and most defensible structure in all of this "Wah-shing-tun", this capital city of theirs (if even that, for it was more like a town in D'halia's eyes), so surely this was the place where she would find this elusive local planetary leader, the one named "Lord Governator Roland Raygun". Perhaps he had learnt that an agent of the Officio Assassinorum had been dispatched after him, and had appropriately decided to flee the capital with his tail between his legs rather than face the Temple's wrath. Aye, that would make the most sense - that would explain the pitifully inadequate resistance she had thus far encountered.

She took a minute to catch her breath and plan out her next move. From where her drop-pod had landed, she had sprinted over fifty miles, through forests and across fields, through small town alleyways and under bridges, in the space of two standard hours. This was not Planet Aetheria as per her original mission parameters - that much had become apparent within the first few minutes of her arrival - but wherever and whatever this world was, it was without doubt one that existed outside of the jurisdiction of the Imperium, and that was not to be tolerated. The news that she had been joined in this displacement by an entire planetary assault force from Terra Nova from the neighboring Subsector Orwellia was baffling, but welcoming as well - it indicated to her that soon enough, this rogue planet would be pacified and brought back in line. No matter where and when they were, Imperial Order would be upheld, and all enemies of the Imperium would be eliminated. The natives of this world would be given the same simple choice as a million others before them: kneel, or be exterminated.

Thus far, however, her own mission had not been as successful as she would have preferred; perhaps the language barrier was primarily to blame. And from what she gathered, her attempts at subterfuge by emulating the fashion sensibilities she had observed among a handful of the natives had thus far produced less than desirable results. Her Neural Shredder too had taken damage, and now lay holstered on her left thigh, out of commission. A lucky shot by one of the enemy's attack craft-mounted heavy stubbers had lodged itself inside the device's power distribution mechanism. She had removed the bullet and conducted field repairs as best she could, but at this moment she had neither the time nor the luxury of being a tech-priest. Nevertheless, she had thus far been able to proceed sufficiently well on just Phase Sword alone.

Just then, the HUD in her mask's auspex notified her of several people moving in her direction - a group, consisting of 31 individual signatures. More of their pathetic warriors coming to attempt to stop her? She would observe before deciding how best to dispatch them in the most expedient manner.

"Hold it!" declared the leader, in High Gothic, as they entered the hall. Oddly, she was not wearing any recognizable combat uniform of any kind (not that it made much difference really, seeing how most "uniforms" on this world compared even to standard Militarum flak armor), but regardless, she was marching forward, without fear or doubt. "Stand down! I am an agent of the Ordo Chronos! Inquisitorial Code Juliet Oscar Hotel November One Niner Three Four!" She looked directly in D'halia's direction, as if she knew where exactly she was. "Listen: there has been a grave misunderstanding and you must abort now. This planet is Holy Terra, the year is 984.M2. I beseech you and all other Imperial forces, in the name of the Emperor, stand down."

D'halia hesitated. Could it be true? If this truly were Holy Terra, then where was His Holiness? She looked around her, as if expecting to recognize something, though D'halia could not recall much of any detail about this primitive era, as so much of Humanity's pre-Dark Age history had been lost to the annuls of time. Though whatever the case may be, it certainly warranted a closer inspection.

"I repeat: I am an agent of the Ordo Chronos!" reasserted the woman, walking deeper into the center of the room, while her followers remained clustered around the entryway, apprehensive, in a defensive hemi-circle. "Here is my rosette to prove it." She reached into the folds of her jacket and retrieved a small but highly elaborate badge; crossed crimson "I"s with the hourglass of the Ordo Chronos inscribed within.

Fine-tuned sensors in the assassin's skull-mask zoomed in on the small badge, magnifying it greatly for D'halia's benefit, and probing it for the appropriate encrypted verification tags. Within a second, they flashed green, indicating that it checked out - an older code, one not used for centuries, but one that still would have been valid at the time it was first issued.

D'halia let go of her perch among the rafters, and dropped down to the floor, right in front of the envoy. No sooner had her feet touched the tile floor when she had already pulled herself into striking posture, knees bent, arms raised, ready to lash out at a micro-second's notice. Behind her, several of the men gasped; others raised their autoguns and stubbers. D'halia ignored them; her focus was entirely on her supposed compatriot. "What is your name?" she croaked, the vocal filters in her mask rendering her words deep and intimidating. "Inquisitorial Code Three Point One Four One Five Niner." An older code, but one her auspex indicated would have been in use at around the time the rosette was issued.

"Operative Kovacs," replied the woman, taking a step forward, unflinching - she was either stupid, or brave, or _correct_.

"I know of no Operative Kovacs," spat D'halia, coldly, keeping her Phase Sword drawn, its green blade glimmering with dark light.

"Nor should you, we keep our operations well concealed, as you know," replied the envoy. "But I felt these particularly exceptional circumstances necessitated a breach of my cover. Surely you understand."

"To whom do you report?" inquired D'halia, "Code Romeo Sierra Plus Delta Tango Echo Hotel Bravo Four Victor Two."

"Acknowledged, to Inquisitor Weaver," replied the agent. "I commenced my current assignment in the year 993.M40."

"That was over a thousand years ago," explained D'halia. "My current deployment commenced in the year 084.M42."

"Well, I suppose that means I have much to catch up on," shrugged Lady Kovacs, "I do look forward to our conversations."

"You shall speak to Inquisitor Tarkien, not I," replied D'halia, coldly. She could recognize a slight hint of surprise in the operative's voice, but that was to be expected, given the passage of time and all that had transpired. For instance, just what had become of the Ordo Chronos by M42 might be of interest to her... assuming, of course, that she was indeed whom she proclaimed to be. Because like a true acolyte of the Temple, D'halia did not once let her guard down, but continued with her close scrutiny. "And what is your mission, Operative Kovacs? Code X-ray Three Two One Alpha Romeo Zero."

"I cannot disclose the details at this time," asserted the agent, "not without express authorization of my superior. Inquisitorial Code Five Five Zero Eight Dash Niner One Eight. Authorization: S. Weaver."

 _Spoken like a true and loyal agent of His Holiness The Emperor's Inquisition_ , thought D'halia to herself, approvingly. She stood up straight, relaxed a little but still attentive, and retracted her blade back into its slot on her gauntlet. She turned her attention to the posse of men gathered well behind her. "And these natives? What are they to you? Servants? Mayhaps you have enlightened them to The Emperor's light when you brought them under your employ?"

"These men here are but mere local security forces," explained Operative Kovacs, "the equivalent in this age to the local PDF, whom I have enlisted only momentarily and on an ad hoc basis. You must excuse them; while ignorant of His Holiness, we do live in a time predating even the Dark Age Of Technology. Their inadequacies are through no fault of their own."

"Could you repeat that last statement?" pressed D'halia.

"Certainly," replied Operative Kovacs, "as I was saying, these men here..."

Her High Gothic was fluent and perfect, so D'halla observed, a little on the formal side, but that could be easily understood by regional variations across the Imperium in the transmission of High Gothic. No, more pressingly, there was something in the accent that bothered her. Only the slightest and most easily missed of details, admittedly, but to any member of the Officio Assassinorum, no conversation went without the highest levels of scrutiny. Yes, there it was again, that slight twanging inflection on the high front unrounded vowel. No world in the Imperium that D'halia knew of possessed such a sound in their local vernacular, though she had nonetheless heard it several times before, and almost always in the presence of... of...

"Liar," breathed D'halia, "Xenos whore!"

The look on the face of (so-called) Operative Kovacs abruptly changed, and she must have realized what was going on, for she immediately lunged backwards, to get away from what was coming next. Before she could react any further, D'halia, in one swift motion, thrust her right fist forward.

 _ **Shunk!**_

The Phase Blade shot forth out of its slot on her gauntlet, and dug itself into the liar's torso. The false operative gasped, her blood spurting out of the wound.

"You _dare_ invoke the name of His Holiness and the Sacred Throne World?" snarled D'halia, twisting the blade slightly. Never, not in two hundred years of service to the Temple, had she ever encountered such a heinous insult as this – indeed, the deception was so perfect that even D'halia herself, as much as she was ashamed to admit it, had almost been fooled. "I will make you _suffer_ for this!" she hissed, and then, with lithe, sinewy muscles visibly bulging even under the thick, protective layers of her Synskin combat-suit, she lifted that lying witch bodily into the air, and threw her.

The lying whore sailed twenty feet through the air, smacked hard against the wall with a vicious crack, and crumpled onto the floor. D'halia retracted her phase sword, and instead reached for one of the rack of poisoned blades stowed in the holster strapped around her right thigh - different poisons for different occasions, even for one like this.

So it turns out this was not a chrono-displacement to Holy Terra in M2 after all, just as she had suspected, but a simple spatial-displacement to a rogue world outside of Imperial rule - what else could be expected from these... _things_? A cunning and well executed deception (though what fell purpose it served was probably an answer only fully understood by the twisted minds of its perpetrators), but ultimately one the All-Seeing Eye Of The Imperium would see through in the end. Oh, Inquisitors Tarkien and Waller and the others too would learn of this, and heads would surely roll.

The witch lay there, clutching the deep wound in her chest. Her long auburn hair, neatly styled and perfectly straight before, had come undone, exposing two elongated, pointed ears, protruding from either side of her glaring, piercing eyes.

"Filthy. Lying. _Xenos scum_!" breathed D'halia, striding ominously toward her, "you will die a long, slow, _agonizing_ death for this!"

"Well, go on then," coughed the witch, blood dripping from her mouth, her voice now twinged with that familiar and loathsome reverberation. "Get it over with."

* * *

 **Not too far away...**

Sgt. Powell watched the whole scene unfold over the closed circuit TV screens, from several different angles, and he still couldn't tell what the hell was going on.

One moment, it looked like their new special agent friend was actually succeeding in talking down that... whatever the hell that _thing_ was supposed to be, some kind of crazy kung-fu ninja lady in a skull-mask with some funky magic sword. There were several hidden surveillance microphones planted throughout the cafeteria, and each soldier was carrying one too, so the audio feed was loud and clear, but whatever they were saying to each other was in some weird language that might as well be gibberish.

And then, all of a sudden, the ninja lady had suddenly turned on their friend, out of the blue, and just _stabbed_ her, just like that! What gives? What the hell?! Powell could only look on in mixed horror, confusion, and fascination as the ninja-lady lifted their agent like she was a rag doll, and threw her against the wall. Well, looked like diplomacy was now outta the window.

And then...

"Leave her alone, you _bitch_!" came a garbled, static-laced voice over the audio-feed, and Powell looked on as one of the group, a lone Army soldier, stood up and opened fire, unleashing a burst of 5.56mm NATO rounds.

"LET'S ROCK!" shouted someone else.

And then all hell broke loose.

The Pentagon cafeteria became a shooting gallery, the large space echoing with the cacophony of some dozen different types of firearms being discharged within.

One Marine had set up an M60 bipod on one of the tables and was now firing away, the gun slurping up the ammo-belt like a string of spaghetti. Not to be outdone, the Army guys had brought up a pair of M240's and were also now adding their voice to the choir. The other Marines and all the Army guys were all with regular M16s, had all taken cover behind various tables and pieces of furniture.

One of their fellow DC cops, Officer Tackleberry, could be seen standing up, unflinching, shooting off an S&W 29 like he was trying to be frikkin' Dirty Harry or something. It was complete chaos as tracer fire lit up the screen; glass and tableware shattered, chunks of plaster, chipped tiles and splinters of wood broke off of walls and furniture and went flying everywhere. The whole clusterfuck made Powell briefly think of shoot-outs from old Western movies, 'cept that here it was the Magnificent Thirty up against just one bandit. But what a bandit she was.

"I hope you like it up all three holes, bitch!" shouted someone.

"DIE!" shouted another, "just fucking DIE already!"

"This is for Dallas, alien scum!"

One of the FBI agents dove onto the end of the one of the long tables, sliding down the length of it, all the while an H&K MP5 clattering away in his hands. Elsewhere in the cafeteria, one of the soldiers stood up from cover, pulled the pin on a grenade, and threw it. "EAT THIS!" he shouted; the grenade sailed through the air, right at where their foe was standing.

Throughout all of this, though, the ninja-lady was moving fast as lightning, bolting, jumping, ducking, dodging, twirling through the air, running this way, running that way, running up the walls even. Surely _some_ of the relentless barrage _must_ have been hitting her, and yet she just seemed to ignore them. And when saw that grenade flying right at her, she leapt up, spinning in mid-air. Her foot made contact with the grenade... and kicked it right back in the direction from whence it came.

"Oh. Fuck." said the guy who threw it.

 _ **BOOM!**_

The blast sent two men flying; a third was caught by the shrapnel and slumped over the table in front of him.

The sword spun and whirred around, so fast that it was impossible to see it half the time with whatever frame-rate the surveillance TV had to offer; it was severing heads and limbs, sometimes even severing metal guns in half, cutting this way and that, leaving deep gashes in the floor and walls.

Here, she kicked a chair into the air with such force that it flew and smashed into one agent's face, breaking apart. There, she leapt and landed, like a cat, on top of one of the tables on her feet; in half a second, she had pulled something from her belt, and threw it. Twenty feet away, one of the Marines fell back against the wall, a long blade protruding from his neck.

The assassin then looked up at the camera; to Powell, it felt like she was looking right at him. She then jumped up into the air, towards the camera, and the screen went to static.

However, the audio feeds were still active.

"Back up!" blurted the intercom, its speaker unknown. "We need back up!"

"Fuck this ninja-bitch! Fuck her to hell!"

"Arrrgggghhhh!"

"Oh God!"

"Olly! No!"

"They're getting destroyed in there!" gasped Officer Hightower, "Sarge, we gotta do something!"

"I'm working on it," snarled Agent Corman in his chair, impatiently. He spoke into his headset. "Sgt. Matthews, do you read me? I want you to lay down a suppressing fire and pull Alpha Team back to Corridor 1 entrance, lock and hold that chokepoint. I'm sending for Bravo Team right now. Sgt. Matthews, do you copy?"

"That's not gonna work!" blurted Sgt. Powell, shaking Corman's shoulder.

Agent Corman angrily shoved Powell aside and continued: "I repeat: Sgt. Matthews; I want you to lay down a suppressing fire and fall back to the doorway..."

"God damn it!" hissed Powell. He got up and looked at Hightower, and pumped his shotgun. "Let's move! We'll do this ourselves."

"Just where do yo think you're going?" shouted Corman, spinning around on his chair to face them, but they were already on their way out the door.

* * *

 **Nearby...**

D'halia was many things to the enemies of the Imperium; a shade of the night, death incarnate to traitors and filthy Xenos alike, or a servant dutifully carrying out the dirty work that Imperial Order required. But there were many things she was not, and invincible was one of them.

These rebel scum, primitive as they and their weaponry may have been, had managed – whether through determination, good fortune, or sheer volume of firepower – to land many direct hits on her person. Her sensors and her reflexes, the protective layers of her Synskin combat suit, and her bodily enhancements afforded by the effects of the Polymorphine... had all helped absorb or blunt most, but not all, of these impacts.

Her HUD alerted her to no other movement in the immediate area; all hostiles had been disabled or dispatched. Her phase blade slinked back into its compartment on her gauntlet, and she knelt down and went to work. A small compartment on her suit's utility belt contained her field medical kit – pliers, and a pocket-sized version of an Apothecary's Narthecium, like a little silver pistol with a needle pointing out the front and little vials attached to the sides.

Her fingers working nimbly, D'halia stuck the pliers into the bullet hole in her ankle, held her breath, and yanked the bullet out. It stung, but her training and experience and the Polymorphine running through her system numbed the pain considerably. She took a moment to examine the round, her auspex scanning it closely. Depleted uranium-tipped; gave their primitive stubguns a little extra bite – low tech, but effective.

In several other places, the enemy shots had penetrated more deeply and painfully. These wounds required a more thorough examination by an Inquisitorial physician. For now, a quick fix would have to suffice. She took the Narthecium, selected the appropriate dosage, and pressed the needle into the wound. She gritted her teeth, and pulled a trigger. There was a _crack_ , followed by a fizzing. The layers of skin and exposed flesh around the wound, even the bio-technic fibers of her Synskin too, began to bubble and warp and flex. New muscle and skin and fiber began to grow and form around the wound, closing it up completely, if temporarily. D'halia clutched the bench next to her and groaned. The bullet was still lodged in there somewhere, but for now, the Polymorphine injection would have to suffice until her mission was complete.

Once she had addressed her most pressing injuries, she quickly repacked the medkit, and then snapped open the miniaturized dataslab on her wrist, dialing the appropriate code.

"Inquisitor," croaked D'halia, though she knew the pain in her voice would be filtered out, "Code Crimson October, change of mission parameters. These natives... they are... consorting with Xenos! _Xenos_ , Inquisitor! Over." As she spoke, her gaze fell upon the headless body of one of the rebels, the words "FROMM, OLIVER" inscribed on the little dogtag that hung from the stump of his neck. That had been a far kinder fate than what he truly deserved for having not only served in an army opposed to Imperial Order, but to have done so at the command of a Xenos whore no less.

On the other side of the vox, Inquisitor Tarkien's voice replied, heavily filtered but still recognizably surprised at this revelation. "If what you are saying is true, the implications of this are grave. But we must be certain. Bring me the evidence, and I will make a more appropriate determination of how we shall proceed from here. Inquisitorial Code Golf Zero Tango Sierra Seven Sierra Uniform X-Ray. Over."

"I will bring you her head," replied D'halia, "over and out."

A quick scan of the room revealed thirty dismembered corpses, but no trace of the Xenos whore. Only a few spots of foul alien blood, already crystallized, demarcated the spot where she had fallen. Crystalline flecks, the remnants of a bloody handprint, encrusted the handle of one of the doorways, indicating the direction the fell creature had made her escape during the chaos.

 _So that's the way it's going to be then?_ , fumed D'halia to herself. She stood up and drew her sword again. _Very well. You can run, witch, but you cannot hide!_

* * *

 **Over a hundred km away...**

"You called, m'lord?" asked the commandress Kisarovna as she approached him, accompanied by her command staff.

"We have a Code Crimson October," snarled Inquisitor Tarkien, "suspected Xenos involvement. Current extent of infiltration unclear. I want you to send a vox – to all Kobran Legions, and all Imperial forces on this world – to be on the lookout for Xenos units." His head turned to look towards the field of hostages, the little children and few adults all herded in one spot, like cattle.

"If what our operative says is true," she observed, "there could be potential Xenos infiltrators among the hostages."

Tarkien noticed his hand instinctively grasping the handle of the boltgun holstered on his belt. He considered her dire warning. Yes, it would make sense for these creatures to have an informant implanted in every community, every local administrative unit, every institution on this world...

"Orders, My Lord?" asked the commandress, expectantly.

"We shall await further news from our operative," he replied, pulling his hand away from his holster, "it is best that we have a fuller understanding of the extent of what fell influence permeates this world before we determine what needs be done."

* * *

 **Somewhere else entirely...**

 _Close your eyes. Take a deep breath. Embrace eternity!_

Karl already knew before commencing the mind-meld that this was going to be one unlike any other He had ever performed before, in this life... or even in any of His many prior lives.

What He had not foreseen was just how far down the rabbit hole He would be going.

The being with whom His mind had now become one with had been a boy once – an ordinary Human boy by the name of Henrik Shlakt, who was born on the Planet Zandar in the Calixis Sector, over two thousand years ago, in the year 996.M39 of whatever dating system these Humans From Outer Space used.

Karl examined the world around him. It unnerved Him, to think that over all of His many lives He had always been led to believe that Earth was the one and only Realm Of Men, and yet here He was looking at another planet inhabited by Humans, and one that His senses told Him was just one of thousands like it spread out across their galaxy. Perhaps whatever intelligence had created the _Aeldari_ had also seeded Human life on other worlds too, not just here on Earth? It made Him think of His favorite movie, which opened with the line "A Long Time Ago, In A Galaxy Far, Far Away..." and was about a whole galaxy of Humans not of Earth.

Zandar was an ugly and blighted world, not a shred of green or blue to be seen anywhere on its surface. The only features of beauty (if one could even call them that) were the planet's enormous and elaborate cathedrals that were more appropriately called artificial mountains, for each was a vast construct, miles upon miles of elaborate Gothic-looking exterior and detailing, and with spires reaching far up into the upper reaches of the atmosphere, each filled to the brim with masses of worshippers, voices all raised in song and praise to that figure they called "The Emperor".

Sprawling hive cities like cancerous tumors broke up the surface of Zandar, packing billions of people into squalid conditions not unlike the KWC and even worse – where the poor died in droves from starvation or disease, were brutally raped and murdered by roving street gangs, or mauled by mutant pests slithering or crawling up from the toxic waste cesspools that percolated beneath each city, all of these menaces going unchecked by what little in the way of law enforcement or social services existed in these hives.

High above the atmosphere, fleets of massive, mile-long spaceships hovered in orbit, ships of every kind – cargo transports hauling the much-needed food and supplies to feed a populace the planet could not sustain on its own; the gleaming personal pleasure yachts of the planetary ruling elite; or the mighty warships of the Imperial Navy, like enormous and heavily armored Gothic cathedrals just floating out in space, bristling with as many gargoyles and flying buttresses as actual guns.

Henrik got his first taste of the wider galaxy outside Zandar when his world came under attack by the Orks – ugly creatures of green skin and great slabs of muscle. They came in fleets of ships that looked more like rocks with scrap metal hammered into it, some of which would even come crashing down onto the surface of Zandar like meteors to disgorge the troops they carried within. A green tide of incredible hulks surging forward, smashing and destroying indiscriminately. Billions died, few survived.

Young Henrik was one such survivor, emerging from the ruins of his home hive much changed, and newly empowered by his hatred for the Xenos. He could have signed up to join the Imperial Guard. Instead, he wanted to go further. He wanted to become an _Adeptus Astartes_.

The fact that Henrik as a little boy had survived the opening stages of the War For Zandar on his lonesome earned him a place among the recruits for these _Black Templars_ , but it by no means guaranteed that he would make the final cut. Karl could see through his eyes, of Henrik's time as a Neophyte under the tutelage of Initiate Brother Minevrus Thoth, could even feel what he felt being cut open and having his body stuffed with additional organs, usually foregoing painkillers entirely. Most of the other recruits died in the process.

Sleeping on cold stone floors, being constantly berated for failings real or imaginary by Brother Thoth, and constant sessions of prayer and adulation dedicated to this "the Emperor", while being taught to nothing short of utterly _abhor_ the alien, the traitor, and the mutant, in whatever form they may take. And this was before the real combat training began.

It was a training regimen unlike anything He had ever beheld before. Perhaps even inefficient at times. He had of course been alive, in another lifetime, to have witnessed the rise and fall of Sparta, have fought across the plains of Mongolia, or to have fought alongside the French Foreign Legion, but this was on an entirely new level of brutality. And yet, He was also quietly impressed by the whole affair and the quality of soldiery it created (true, He had scythed through them like they were nothing, but granted He was the extreme exception with regard to what kind of foes these warriors were trained and prepared to face).

But each new vision revealed only more questions. Where exactly in this galaxy, or another, was this "Imperium" located? Why had they come here to Earth? And who was this "Emperor" they kept speaking of and praying to? Far more than merely a political head of state, that much was apparent.

Fast forward many years, and Henrik endured and persevered and then was he a full-fledged and initiated brother of the Black Templars. And only then did the real task begin.

This galaxy, from whence these Exo-Humans had come, was a world of endless warfare. Karl saw massive armies of fairly ordinary Human soldiers marching into battle in neat, organized ranks, stretching back as far as the horizon. Here and there, black-coated Commissars who looked like they belonged in the Third Reich would be seen, shouting and whipping the miserable ranks of the poor bloody infantry forward into the meatgrinder, and never hesitating to put a round in the head of any deserter found wanting. These were the regular grunts of the Imperium, soldiers who did not share the Astartes' benefit of powered armor and all those extra organs and enhancements either, but who marched forward all the same to whatever fate had in store for them, with courage in their hearts and fire in their bellies.

Countless battles against countless foes ensued.

Swarms of chittering and chitinous beasts that may as well have crawled out of an H.R. Giger exhibit, except far more colorful, and far, _far_ more numerous, such that they frequently covered the surfaces of entire planets with their sheer numbers. Above them loomed the ships they had come in, bio-organic constructs that resembled (and probably were) living creatures themselves, like moon-sized giant squids so large that they could deploy troops merely by extending a tentacle down to the surface of the planet whilst the rest of its body remain in orbit above.

More Orks, in their millions, cackling and whooping with joy as they surged forward at Henrik and his brothers-in-arms with vicious glee and reckless abandon, with not a care in their simple minds but the desire to kill, to destroy, to make... _**WAAAGH**_. Like Conan The Barbarian, they took no interest in higher achievements in arts or culture or philosophy - only the satisfaction of the base primal desire programmed into the very essence of their being, and that was enough for them. In some ways, they were all the better for it, for they were the only culture (if one could call them that even) in this dark universe who actually reveled in it.

There were even more enemies – those that on the surface looked like Humans, though Karl knew right away that they were not. These ones were all tall and lithe, wore wicked black armor covered in spikes (that is, when they wore anything at all, for many eschewed protection and modesty altogether for no apparent reason other than to show off their dexterity, agility, and other _assets_ ), and they sped through the air on hovering vehicles that were just as dark and barbed in appearance as their clothing. After one battle against these creatures, Henrik and his fellow companions came upon the aftermath of one of their rituals. The bodies of their Human victims lay stretched out everywhere, tortured and twisted and dismembered in every imaginable manner (and several previously unimaginable ones too). Henrik looked upon the scene with little in the way of revulsion or shock, completely desensitized to it all. Experiences like these were not unique in dealings with the _Dark Eldar_.

And then there were the relentless armies of implacable silver skeletons with green glowing eyes, that rose from beneath the ground like zombies and carried weapons able to disintegrate a whole battle tank apart with bolts of sickly green lightning. These ones especially irked Karl, for they reminded Him of His own visions of a great battle one of His past lives had fought against legions of similar-looking constructs, them and their monstrous overlord; it was a sobering reminder that however many He may have defeated and destroyed that day, so long ago, there were countless billions upon billions more out there, waiting to be awoken from their slumber. Them, and the cruel star gods they served. Karl shivered for though He had emerged triumphant that one time He had come to blows with one of these immensely powerful beings, it was a victory that did not come without personal cost, and one that had taken the better part of a millennium's worth of lives to recover from.

He saw war machines of every conceivable shape and size, from tanks that could more appropriately be compared to moving buildings, to even larger constructs, the _Titans_ , mechanized walkers that looked like they had stomped right out of some Japanese TV show, but much larger, and with arm-mounted cannons that could blast a mountain apart. Even Henrik eventually became a machine of war himself, not allowed to rest in peace after having fought his last battle, but instead having been exhumed so that he may fight many more battles to come, from within this machine, this _Dreadnought_ that marked his final resting place.

And then He saw them, the Daemons and the other monstrous entities that inhabited the aether, or the Warp, _the Immaterium_ as they called it – the writhing masses of eyes and tentacles and claws and spikes that could only belong to the spawn of the Ruinous Powers. He recognized them immediately for He was no stranger to them. In this life and in many before, He had fought their kind before. And He knew that there were at least three big ones.

What surprised Him was to find out there was apparently now a fourth, one He had not been previously aware of. A creature of hideous beauty and terrible elegance, rising out of the Warp like Venus rising from the ocean, flowing golden hair with six horns protruding from its scalp, its right half that of a woman and its left half that of a man. This was just one of infinite forms that could be taken by the one they called the _Prince Of Pleasure_. Karl knew that like the others – the forces of _destruction_ , of _decay_ , and of the universe's natural and constant state of _flux_ \- the base essence of _desire_ had always been there, lurking in the Warp. Now he could see that it was not merely there, but had also taken a recognizable name and and an actual form of its own, capable of intelligent and independent thought.

There was an entire galaxy of Humans out there, somewhere in the multiverse, where Humanity were the dominant life-forms. But instead of being able to enjoy the wealth and prosperity that this status should have afforded them, instead Mankind had been turned into a caged animal, driven mad by the constant terror and pain wrought by an uncaring universe where everything was trying to kill them, where there existed no peace among the stars, and where behind everything else could be heard the laughter of cruel gods thirsting for more.

Finally, as His mind brushed up against Henrik's DNA, He suddenly felt an inexplicably strong connection between Himself and something locked deep within the fallen knight's genetic memory. At this point, He knew that He was venturing far beyond the maximum extent of Henrik's memories. Now He would be free-falling into the realm of the abstract, and whatever He would be seeing would be His own mind trying to comprehend all it beheld. He braced Himself for it.

He found Himself standing alone inside of an enormous but dimly-lit interior space, so large that clouds formed within its ceiling. Arcane machinery and piping lined the walls and floors of the hall and all seemed to converge on one central point. And then, marching up the length of this great hall, came one giant of a man, in yellow-painted armor sans helmet, sigils of black clenched fists adorning his enormous shoulder paldrons, with a long red cape and a thick mustache.

This giant, this... _Primarch_... he approached Karl, followed by (slightly) smaller but like-armored knights... and then He just strode past Him, ignoring Him completely, instead his attention on something he was carrying in his arms. Karl strained for a closer look; it was the broken body of... someone. He could not tell for sure whom exactly it was, though He knew it was that thing that He had come here to see.

His mind then drifted even further backwards (though not too far), and beheld two titans in an eldritch throne room, locked in battle - one was a veritable god in and of itself, the other was merely acting as a channel for other, darker beings. The former was a golden-armored giant wielding a flaming sword, who vaguely reminding Karl of one of His own past lives. The golden-man's un-helmeted face was completely different and unfamiliar to Karl, and yet oddly recognizable at the same time. The other titan was completely monstrous, black and brass armor with a monstrous red eye blinking in the middle of its chest, its soul burning in both reality and in the Warp with the powers of Chaos Undivided.

From there, Karl's next vision found Himself once more standing alone inside that Inner Sanctum he had visited minutes earlier. Some time must have passed, for the hall was slightly different in terms of layout and lighting – it could have been a few hours later, or a few hundred years later. The center of the hall was now dominated by a vast pyramidal construct, at the top of which loomed a presence that Karl could sense was aware of Him.

"Who are you?" He shouted at It, in both anger and genuine curiosity.

When the thing did not answer, Karl instead turned his attention towards the construct that housed It. A maze of piping and cables connected the thing to ten thousand coffin-like boxes, inside each of which Karl could sense a trapped and tortured soul writhing about. Human sacrifices. Perhaps that was the reason these invaders had come to Earth. It unnerved Him to think that He too could end up being sacrificed to feed this _thing_ , whatever It was.

"Who are you?!" He shouted, louder this time, as if expecting that to do better. The thing remained silent, though He could now perceive Its head even from this far away, a skull with empty eye sockets staring blankly at Him, as if mocking Him.

Karl shivered; all the macabre and unpleasant visions He had seen thus far, but for some reason it was this _thing_ that frightened Him the most. It lurked there above Him, dead and yet at the same time very much alive and incomprehensibly vaster and more powerful than He. He was _nothing_ compared to It. And yet, somehow, the true reason It disturbed Him was something else entirely, something He could not quite put a finger on.

"Who are you?!" He demanded, as against His better judgment, He approached the thing. Seconds turned to minutes, minutes that seemed to stretch into centuries as He ascended each step up the throne, until at last He was staring It down, face to face. There was something alive and burning under that blank skull.

"WHO ARE YOU?!"

He reached forward and grabbed the skull. All of this was only a vision in His mind, and yet the pain and the burning in His hands felt real enough to Him that He cried out. But He held firm and pulled with all His strength, and then Its face came clean off. What He saw beneath confused and horrified Him to a far greater extent than anything He had seen thus far.

The thing had one face and yet had many, many different ones at the same time – youthful or elderly, man, woman, androgynous, handsome, ugly, healthy, diseased... and one of those many faces was His own, down to His unruly hair and sideburns, His own sad and forlorn eyes staring back up at Him.


	24. Fox On The Run

_**Writer's Notes:** Thank you to all readers for the continued show of support and positive feedback. The last chapter ended on a bit of a major bombshell. This next chapter was to follow up on that, but it also ended up being the longest of this entire story so far, with the final chapter clocking in at nearly 12,000 words. Not only is it long, but it's also incredibly dense, full of details and brief glimpses of (my interpretation of) the Pre-Fall Eldar Empire. _

_For these reasons, I have decided to split the single large chapter up into two smaller chapters: the one you are reading right now, and the next one that will be posted some time in the next week, once I have had time to gauge readers' responses to this chapter. I hope readers will find both chapters combined to be a satisfying and thrilling read, and one well worth the wait!  
_

 _Special thanks goes out to **Jasonvoorhees525** and **Kelmola** who provided consultation on the Pre-Fall Eldar, and to **Thoresby** , who proposed the medical procedure described in absolutely lovely detail below. Without further ado..._

* * *

 **Chapter XXIV**

 **FOX ON THE RUN  
**

 **The Pentagon,**  
 **Arlington, Commonwealth Of Virginia.**

The dark hallways stretched on and on like a massive concrete labyrinth, illuminated only by dim emergency lights, the wails and screeches of the building's fire alarm ringing all around her. She limped and stumbled forward, clutching the wound in her abdomen, but her real concern was the poison pumping through her veins. That, and of course this small matter of the bloodthirsty implacable assassin on her tail.

She groaned, taking another step. Every footfall forward felt more laborious than the last. Her vision was starting to become hazy around the edges, and there was a sharp stinging sensation, as if a hundred needles were being pricked into every muscle that moved. The only good news was that it was a slow-acting poison, one not meant to kill its victim immediately; granted, the reason for this being that it was meant to prolong its victim's suffering for as long as possible.

In retrospect, thought Adora Keàirden bitterly to herself, perhaps attempting to impersonate an agent of this "Imperium Of Mon'Keigh" was not the most intelligent plan she had ever conceived. But it was the most expedient plan she could think of for making these... murderous barbarians from the future stand down, and ingratiating the natives to her in the process. And besides, no-one else on this world could have done it. To think that she had come so close if not for a minor slip of the tongue she had never even considered before.

Adora cursed herself. All these years of having lived on this primitive planet, having been forced to conceal herself among these primitive people and learn their primitive ways and customs, and actually having made a respectable job of it. And now all gone to waste.

She cursed herself again, for just what a macabre farce this whole masquerade had turned into. What in the Crone's name had made her think this was a good idea? Was it her own confidence in her abilities? Had she underestimated these Mon'Keigh of the future, thought them to be just as ignorant and dull of mind as the Humans of this current age? Was it her impatience to seize an opportunity to begin putting her grand schemes into action well ahead of schedule? Was it ( _dare_ she even entertain such thoughts)... _compassion and pity_ for these pathetic creatures? Some noble but naive sense of justice, the desire to prevent further senseless death and devastation? (No, that most certainly could _not_ be right! She cursed herself a third time; she _must_ be going mad!).

Or was it something else that drove her? A voice in the Warp, a guiding vision, the kind of inexplicable occurrences that sometimes drove even rational people to do irrational things? Like that which had first started her on this long journey that had taken her from home to this place, all those years ago...

Her head stung, and she clutched her temples in both hands. There was a ringing in her ears that blurred and distorted every other sound save for the sound of her own heartbeat. Her bare feet dragged sloppily and ponderously along the floor, bereft of any of their usual grace and elegance. But she moved on all the same, forcing herself forward and continuing to curse her current circumstances in increasingly colorful and delirious language.

Ah yes, "The Company™" (obligatory trademark symbol included). Ugh. _By Khaine_ , who would think up such a _stupid_ name? _Sha'eil!_ At least she had tried to be creative with this identity of "Adrienne Kovacs", had thought she was being clever, a little poetic even, in so masterfully crafting the name and colorful life-story behind it. But "The Company"? Now that was just being lazy. Oh, how much time and energy she had wasted now, expending great effort and patience in making the little business cards and even acquiring for herself such primitive things as a _telephone line_ and _telex_ and that bloody Vaul-forsaken _fax machine_ to better sell the illusion...

No, stop it. Just stop it already! Deep breaths. Think, Adora, think. Whatever it was, that was behind her now. She could play the game of self-loathing later. All that mattered at that moment was whatever she was going to do next.

Unfortunately, with every passing minute, it seemed her choices were increasingly limited.

She had covered as much distance as her nimble legs could, but each new step forward had become difficult. Adora had to stop for a moment to catch her breath. Panting and sweating profusely, she leaned back against a corner, and looked around her.

Her keen eyesight and psychic vision betrayed not a single soul in sight, either here or in the adjacent rooms and hallway, but of course that would change shortly. She could no longer hear any gunfire from the direction of the cafeteria, though she knew not whether this was because of the thick concrete walls and distance she had put between her and there, or because the firefight had ended (and almost certainly on terms not favorable to the grunts she had taken as her personal bodyguards).

Pushing herself off the wall, Adora took another step. There was a sudden sharp pain in her right knee, like her femur had cracked in half along its length though in fact it hadn't. She shuddered, and fell face forward flat onto the floor, forehead first. For a moment, her forehead burned and the world around her went out of focus.

When she came to, instead of the dark, empty hallway, her mind instead beheld...

 _...she was standing in the middle of a vast and gilded hall, decorated in shimmering murals and gleaming sculptures in every conceivable shape. Warm sunlight filtered in through the enormous windows, outside of which one could glimpse the many shining crystal spires, skyscrapers truly worthy of the name, many of which reached up to high orbit. This was the downtown area of Dru' Astrid – glorious capital city of the Crone World Druidia, and crown jewel of the Moebius Sector of The Empire._

 _The view from Civic Center should have filled any native Druidian with awe and pride, but not her, and not today. The attention of all hundred-thousand souls gathered inside this hall were all upon her, making the space feel oppressive and confined, less like a court for the dispensation of justice, and more like some gladiatorial arena for satiating the public's bloodlust. Her wrists and feet were tightly bound with wraithbone shackles, but that bothered her less than the towering psychomaton that stood on either flank, scanning her every movement, ready to pounce should she make the slightest attempt at escape. All she could do was stand and sulk and wait for this sham to begin._

" _Lady Adorcha Maeterys, House Of Keàird'en," addressed the Lord Báiliph, as he took the podium, "you stand accused of the following charges..."_

 _She did not need to be reminded of what she had done. Instead, she was impatient, and furious at everyone: at the supposed "victim", for having deserved everything that came to him. At the Empire's farce of a criminal justice system, where some evils were tolerated under the guise of "freedom of speech and expression" while other lesser evils were disproportionately punished. She was furious at the thousands of spectators gathered here today to gawk at her, them and billions more across the Empire, tuning in on the Webway-net._

 _And she was furious at herself most of all. There was no denying the weight of the evidence stacked against her, the gravity of what she had done, or the seeming weakness of whatever justifications or defenses she could raise. But in the mean time, she might as well make the prosecution fight hard for it._

 _When at last the Báiliph reached the end of the list of charges, he turned to face her directly."How does the accused plead?"_

" _Not guilty," she declared, defiantly, "I deny all charges. I demand to exercise my right to a full and fair trial. I demand to exercise my right to the assistance of a competent and zealous advocate. And I demand the right to confront Lord Councilman Gaathon himself! He is the alleged victim, is he not?"_

Adora shivered, reliving a memory of a life she had long thought she had left behind. Other fragments here and there came to mind - spending long-hours as a child with her wide-eyes turned skyward, watching the bustling spaceport of Dru'Astrid... vacations to Eidafaeron to see the spectacular shrines raised to celebrate the great Phoenix Lords... thrill-seekers riding solar waves across the Shoulder Of Orion, right up to the Tannhauser Gate... the dress and make-up she had worn for the final gala event she had attended before everything had gone to _Sha'eil_ for her... and that sinister look on the face of Lord Shaha Gaathon on that night, all those many decades ago...

The poison. This must be the poison's doing. She vaguely recognized it – it was some second or third rate Mon'Keigh knock-off of one invented by her own people. A generic imitation; one that was perfectly functional and effective at what it was meant to do (which was to inflict agony in any and all forms possible, and eventually death through organ failure and internal bleeding), but it was otherwise lacking any of the elegance and refinement of the original – like comparing a cat-of-nine-tails to a surgical scalpel. That was actually some welcome news for once, for it would make the task before her marginally easier to accomplish.

With emphasis on "marginally" for it was still by no means a simple task at all.

With great effort, Adora pushed herself up from the floor and clambered to her feet. She held onto the wall for a moment to steady herself, and set off again at a hurried pace. But again she did not make it very far when after only a few dozen steps, another terrible pain in her legs brought her down to her knees.

There was just no way around it: she needed to expunge the toxin out of her system. And it would have to be done quickly, for it was already starting to drive her mad, making her mind drift off to darker places...

 _...the graceful and elegant curves and lines of their starships extended into their interiors too. The cockpit of the_ Druch' Eshairr _, a_ Vampire _-class Prowler, was a fusion of form with function, rounded and spacious and brightly lit, yet well organized and with a clear hierarchical structure that ensured that every member of the_ Eshairr _'s ten-person crew knew their place._

 _At its center, she sat in the captain's chair. Her left hand rested on the pommel of_ Margaithann _, House Keàird'en's ancient warpsword (an artifact said to have been handed down from generation to generation since the War In Heaven itself), while her right stroked the head of Kringer; the large green Gyrinx stood alert and attentive by his master's side, only his tail was moving at all. In front of them, through the windscreen, pastel swirls and blue lines resolved themselves into unfamiliar stars as the Webway Drive pulled them back into realspace._

" _My Lady," spoke one of her subordinates, approaching her; it was Tygra, their navigator. He continued: "we have detected psychic signatures on the third planet of the system. Preliminary analysis indicate it to be a class-M world, one matching the description we took from the archives on Thra. We suspect it may still be inhabited."_

" _That must be it," she replied, "take us in for a closer look, Lord Navigator." Tygra did not do so immediately, but faltered for a moment. "You hesitate," she observed, "you fear what we may find?"_

" _My Lady..." replied Tygra, bowing slightly but the concern in his voice was still palpable, "we are talking about a force strong enough to deactivate a Webway Gate."_

" _Indeed, and we all understood the risks when we embarked on this voyage," she replied, "we have gone too far to turn back now. And even if we could, where would we go? Back to Druidia, to a hero's welcome, no doubt. Take us in."_

" _MEOW!" mewed Kringer, seemingly in agreement..._

 _No, Kringer!_ , she thought to herself, a sudden pang of guilt and loss hitting her like a ton of bricks. A single tear ran down her cheek. Oh how she remembered that pathetic little creature, brave and loyal to a fault, who would follow his master to _Sha'eir_ and back with absolutely no regard for his own safety. Just thinking now of his distinctive green stripes and large yellow eyes and...

NO! Stop it! _Snap out of it!_ Must. Stay. Focused.

 _Can't... go... much. Further. Must. Do. This now_. She looked around her desperately, searching for something to use. This hallway was lined on both sides by doors with glass windows in them, their numbers and the names of their occupants displayed on the front of each on a little brass plate; she figured she was in the wing of the building dedicated to the offices of the Navy.

Adora closed her eyes and instead searched around her through the warp. Best she could tell, this hallway was clear... for now. It was hard to get back up on her feet, so instead she crawled to get to the nearest door. On all fours, like she were some animal.

The office was locked. Normally, picking the lock would have been a simple case of reaching out through the Warp to realign the pins on the bolt, but Adora needed to save her strength, so instead she did it the old way. She clenched her right hand into a fist, and drove it into the window pane. It shattered, pieces of glass cutting her hand and wrists. She reached inside, and turned the knob.

The door fell open away from her, and Adrienne tumbled into the office. She lifted herself again, but then almost immediately half-collapsed onto the desk. She yanked out all the drawers, rummaging for whatever she could find. Various papers, folders, pencils, a black Sharpie, scissors, a roll of duct tape, a stapler, several packs of cigarettes, a Jimmy Carter bobblehead, an ashtray, and a Navy Zippo lighter. In the largest drawer on the bottom, she found some of the Naval officer's personal (and secretive) effects – a stash of, ahem, _gentleman's special interest_ magazines, a box of Kleenex, three bottles of Coca Cola and one of 151-proof rum.

Sitting on the floor with her back propped up against the desk, she worked as quickly as she could with her trembling hands. She uncapped the Sharpie, and unscrewed the top and bottom, removing the ink reservoir (and blackening her fingers in the process) until she had a hollowed plastic tube. Next, using the ashtray as a bowl, she filled it with Coke, tore strips out the magazines and dipped them in it, and then crunched them up and stuffed them down the empty tube. This was far from an ideal solution, but it should work for _just_ long enough for what she needed to do.

Laying her improvised shunt aside for a moment, she tore open her shirt. A shimmering crystalline crust marked the spot where the assassin's phase blade had pierced her abdomen. She instinctively picked and scratched at it for a moment, small flakes of glitter coming off, but it was otherwise useless for what she was about to do. Instead, a trick she had learned while on the run was to use the rather large epigastric vein that ran down her right side, just deep enough beneath the skin so as not to be a visible weak-spot (her people, it was said, were designed to be perfect in every way, but even a perfect being is still a living creature constrained by its need for basic bodily functions). The trick would be to cut sufficiently deeply and just near to the vein, but not _into_ it.

Having selected the spot, she unscrewed the scissors, took one of the two parts and pricked her left index finger to test it. No, not sharp enough. She pulled off her leather belt and stropped the blade up and down it several times, and then tried it again. Still nowhere near as sharp as she would have preferred. But with time running out, this would have to do. She then uncorked the rum and dipped her improvised scalpel into it for disinfecting. And then, for good measure, she took a quick swig from the open bottle.

Just these simple acts were already tiring and draining upon her. Adora lay back for a second to catch her breath, also taking time to open her "third eye" and check her surroundings. She could not sense anyone else in her immediate vicinity, but she still did not want to draw unwanted attention - so she grabbed her belt, stuffed it into her mouth, and bit down into it hard as she could. And then, hand trembling, she held the blade firmly, and checked once more to make doubly certain she had picked the best spot.

She paused. Her breathing was hurried and strained in short breathes, and her heart was racing. Was this the _right_ thing to do?

No, it was not. It was the _only_ thing to do.

She held her breath... and plunged the blade into her.

* * *

 _She lay face first in the sand, her head swimming with agony – her own, and those of her followers, still continuing to scream in the Warp. Straining hard, she raised her head and looked around._

 _They were in the middle of a desert; it was night, but her keen eyesight could make out clearly details like the cacti and distant rock formations. Fires were burning all around her, and pieces of the wreckage of what just minutes earlier had been the_ Druch' Eshaiir _were strewn everywhere - hull plating, support beams, engine parts, severed power conduits and piping, shattered pieces of the cockpit canopy, even the personal effects of its crew. Some of the wraithbone shards actually began to bend and twist before her very eyes – not from the flames or impact damage, but from the mournful wail and sour music that arose from all this death and destruction._

 _She stretched one hand forward, and dug her fingers into the sand. She struggled to pull herself forward, inch by bloody inch, all the while looking and listening out for the others._

 _Everyone else was dead, all killed in the impact – her navigator Tygra, the twins Atraeyu and his brother Bastyon, Amalthea, Taarna, Galen, Jenn and Kyra too... brothers- and sisters-in-arms who at this point were more than mere crew-mates to her. Only one other was still alive, as he had been by her side in what was probably the safest part of the ship, and right up until the very last moment._

 _Ahead of her, she could see him. The Gyrinx lay sprawled out across the sand some dozen feet ahead of her, back facing her and completely motionless. In her mind, she could sense that he was still alive, though barely. After what seemed like years of crawling slowly forward through the dirt, she finally reached his side. A jagged shard of cockpit wraithglass had gored him in the chest._

" _Kringer!" she sobbed, caressing the beast's furry head in her arms. He said or felt nothing in response, already fading away. Mustering what little psychic strength she had left, she tried to save him, but it was too late. His soul was already joining the others, all of them slowly dissolved away into the Warp where they would linger for how long, only the Gods knew..._

Adora cried out in pain, both in her vision, and in reality. Kringer – no one could ask for a truer friend and companion. For centuries had he followed her, never asking for anything in return except her affections and the occasional scratch behind the ears. And then he just died, just like that. No fanfare or anything. Like some miserable piece of roadkill. And for what? So that she could sate her own curiosity, her ambition, to fulfill some Quixotic quest for justice, or her own desire for vengeance?

No. That night, thirty-seven years ago, she had failed to save Kringer and the others. She would not fail today.

The scissors-turned-scalpel were nowhere near as sharp as she would have liked, but it had done its work - had left an incision an inch deep though with ragged edges of poorly-cut skin and flesh. To get this far, she had to twist it and wiggle it back and forth many times to widen the incision just enough to be usable. Yeah... that was pretty bad.

She then had to hold the hole open between the index finger and thumb on her left hand, while she pulled out the blade with her right, grabbed the shunt, and then pushed that into the wound. She convulsed and there was a short burst of intense ringing in her ears – must have touched something sensitive.

Adora's bloodied and ink-stained hands were trembling violently, so the next step was all the more difficult. She took the roll of duct tape and wound it around her midsection several times to hold the shunt in place. The shunt would hold the incision open, and the acidic properties inherent in both the drink and in the low-quality paper would slow down the process of coagulation and crystallization, though not for long.

For good measure, she took the opened Coke and poured a little more onto the incision. She winced, feeling the phosphoric acid and sugar and carbon dioxide mixture seeping down through the layers of skin and muscle, fizzing wherever it came into contact with freshly exposed pink flesh. Ugh! To think the Humans enjoyed casually consuming such a caustic chemical concoction, completely ignorant of what it could do to their innards.

She leaned back against the desk behind her, to catch her breath. Alright. Now comes the _real_ challenge.

Focus.

The warp appeared before her eyes, like a calm black ocean, though growing increasingly turbulent with each passing minute. The mass fear, death, and suffering spreading rapidly throughout this planet like a wildfire was having a highly localized but profound effect not unlike a tropical storm – though still nowhere on the level of that brief but violent squall that had rocked this world several hours ago, the one that had brought these Mon'Keigh of the future.

Adora's soul briefly detached itself and floated on the currents of the warp. Realspace appeared traced out in glowing white lines against the blackness. She looked down at her body, messy and pathetic, laying propped against the wooden desk, alone in this tiny office room with her only company in the form of a stupid plastic toy made either in mockery or affectionate caricature of this nation's previous leader, the sweater'ed peanut farmer.

Through the warp, she could see her skeleton glowing in the dark, her heart pumping furiously, her lungs rising and falling in hurried gasps, could even see what she'd had for breakfast that morning. And she could see the poison, dispersed and continuing to spread, like some malevolent inky shadow. Crone help her. Adora's people were all born naturally gifted psykers, created by the Old Ones themselves to be their weapons of the warp, their strengths all meticulously groomed and honed over millions of years. She herself had picked up a few skills in her time and had had plenty of opportunities to practice during many long years spent on the run. Well, now to find out if any of that was worth a damn.

Through the warp, she grasped onto each piece of the poison she could find, all at once, and pulled.

To say it hurt would be putting it mildly.

 _ **By... KHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAINE!**_ , she swore and would have shouted out loud as well had she not kept her jaws clenched down on the leather. She paused for a moment to pull the belt out of her mouth, and readjust it before biting back down into it. She did not want to add a broken tooth (or two or three or all of them) to her growing list of maladies and afflictions.

Okay. Stay focused. Let's try this again. From the top.

Once more she reached out through the warp. This time, instead of all of it at once, she decided to start with just a handful and work her way up from there.

For once in her life she actually envied the Humans and their dull senses. Every molecule of the poison felt like a jagged shard of poorly-formed wraithbone, like that you would find shaped by a second or third rate singer, being dragged through her veins. She bit down even harder into the belt. Tears were running down her cheeks in rivulets. But she held onto it and pulled it and never let go.

The tip of the Sharpie oozed with a vile black sludge – the actual dose she had taken from the assassin's blades was but a drop at most, so the rest of it was her own blood and other fluids contaminated by the toxin. Before long, several globs of the stuff had dripped out of her, forming a small puddle by her side. Little wisps of smoke rose from it, and it stank with the most putrid smell imaginable.

There were still small traces of it lingering in her system, but the vast majority of it was out. She would have sighed in relief if she could. Instead, she rolled over onto her other side, curled up into fetal position, and threw up - breakfast, rum, everything. And then blanked out.

* * *

 **Not too far away...**

The only trace that the assassin had been anywhere were the bodies left in her wake. Other than that, no other traces – no footprints, no bloodstains, nuthin'. It unnerved Sgt. Powell, made him wonder if their target might be moving through the air vents above them. He looked up nervously, as if expecting the crazy killer to come bursting out of the grate right above his head any second now, even if it was a tiny one just large enough to let a cat through.

Maybe on second thoughts, it wasn't such a good idea for him and Hightower to go riding in like the cavalry the way they did. They'd arrived at the cafeteria to find the troops there all dead to the last man, so now their whole reason for running off in the first place was kind of moot. They probably should have backed down there and then, but something kept him moving forward, no matter what – he supposed that after years in the force, it was hard for anything to make him break off a hot pursuit.

He looked at Officer Hightower, who looked back at him, patiently waiting for his next set of orders. Poor fella was a good cop, loyal to a fault, followed every order without question; if both of them died here today because of this hair-brained wild bitch chase, it was all on Powell's shoulders.

The walkie talkie on his belt hissed to life. "Attention all units!" barked Agent Corman, "Fox is on the run! I repeat, fox is on the run!"

"Capt. Packard, Bravo Team," replied another, their voice accompanied by a faint but consistent clicking sound, "copy. We're in pursuit of the target, heading west along C-Ring corridor. Passing Corridor 3 now. Over."

"What's that noise?" whispered Hightower.

"Damned if I know," remarked Powell, "stay focused; Bravo Team just crossed Corridor 3 so that means they must be ahead of us."

* * *

 **Back to Reality (?).**

Karl let go and fell to His knees, shaking. He felt weak, His legs turn to jelly, and His forehead hit the ground, hard. But that hurt Him little compared to the burning in His mind. The visions, the nightmares, the... the... the _future_... _His_ future... all of it seared forever into His mind. _What the...?! I... I... can't even begin to...! Argh! How could...?! How... how... how could... all of this happen? What did I just see? I... I..._ His mind struggled even to finish His own trains of thought.

He looked all around Him. Right in front of Him, the withered pathetic corpse that had once been Henrik Shlakt now just hung there in his open coffin, motionless, his face staring at Him with blank eyes. The high-rise buildings of Kowloon rose up around Him, reaching to the blood red sky and seeming to form an impenetrable wall, caging Him here, on these piles of rubble and death, surrounded only by the dead and dying, Hong Kongers and Imperials both, all staring at Him as if He, their lord and savior, had failed them.

Karl felt hot and in great discomfort, His body quivering all over, like never before in this life. _What... what's happening to me? No, what... happen **ed** to me?_ With great effort He pushed Himself back up to His feet, feeling nauseous, His mind spinning. _Where... where am I? Who... who am I?_ Reality itself blurred with His visions, with the... the... the _Warp_ , as they called it. In His mind He could still hear the whoops and jeers of dark gods, as if laughing at Him.

He took two steps back from the hanging carcass of Henrik Shlakt, and turned around, trying to look away, but the dead surrounded Him everywhere He turned. In front of Him here, there lay another of the invaders that He had slain earlier, one of these... _Black Templar Space Marines,_ _Brother Initiate Yevanik_ , lay sprawled out across the rubble. His helmet was ripped off, revealing a gouged and bloodied face, but still clear and intact enough, and with wide-open eyes that stared back at Him, accusingly. _Father_... his soul seemed to cry out through the Warp. Or was it _Grandfather_? Or was He just fabricating it all in His mind? He could not tell the difference, not that it mattered greatly anyway, for in the end, the result was the same.

Karl lashed out at him in anger and frustration, both in reality and through the aether. His foot kicked in Yevanik's face, propelled by His incredible strength, smashing it to a pulp, while His spirit found the knight's soul, still lingering in the Warp, and tore it apart and devoured it whole.

Every time He had ever tried to connect with one of His past lives, it was always like reliving each of Their experiences for the first time – whether making battle against a Star God across the red wastes of Mars, or confronting Mankind's evil nature across the mud-wracked fields of Verdun. So to have now seen that... that... _Thing_ on the Throne... even... bonded with It, _connected_ with It... It had a thousand different faces and at the same time It had just one face, His own. And It had filled Him with an intense dread and sorrow and ten thousand years of pure misery... and... no. _NO!_ No, it... it cannot be!

He stumbled forward, grabbing His hair in His hands and shaking His head madly, trying to get a grip on Himself, on reality, whatever that meant now.

How could...? How could... any of it be true? That... that... _Thing_... well, _all_ of the things, but that _one Thing_ out of all of them... it was all... all of it... it was... was... _IMPOSSIBLE_! Though when He searched His feelings, He found to His great displeasure that deep down, He knew it all to be true.

Karl fell to His knees again, but this time He looked up to the heavens, and cried out.

" _ **NNNNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"**_


	25. Immigrant Song

_**Writer's Notes:** and here is the second part of what was originally going to be one very long chapter. Some readers have asked me why I decided to split the chapter; in response to their point, the best reason I can give is that the original chapter was very long (12,000 words), very dense and thick with important details, dealt with many themes, and (after you read this chapter) makes for one crazy roller-coaster ride. Therefore, I though breaking it up into two smaller chapters would make it easier and more "digestible" to the reader. Especially as this next chapter gets pretty crazy and "heavy metal-ish", so be prepared for that!_

* * *

 **Chapter XXV:**

 **IMMIGRANT SONG**

 **Another Time, Another Place.**

 _She looked around her. These... Humans surrounding her, all engrossed in their own politics and petty matters, all completely ignorant of her. She did not even need to employ a glamour all the time, for as long as she kept her long hair in the feathered style that seemed to be the fashion among their women these days, none of them were the wiser._

 _Right now, "Adrienne", as she had taken to calling herself, was sitting in the corner of the cafe. She took a sip from the coffee and winced a little – Human food and drink was (barring few exceptions) always poor and tasteless compared to her native fare, but it served its purpose of satisfying her necessary caloric intake, and after a quarter-century of being trapped on this world, her palette had adapted accordingly._

 _Outside, she glimpsed a large crowd of younger Humans gathering, men and women, all of them with long hair and brightly colored and flowery clothing, like some uglier and lower budget mockery of her native people. Even from inside, her heightened sense of smell could pick out the pungent odor of the green-weed they would frequently ingest (and that she herself had tried out on occasion). They were marching as a group, chanting and waving placards reading slogans like "leave 'Nam NOW!" and "make love, not war!" and "leave Chile alone!" and "impeach the president!"_

 _Speaking of which, her attention next turned towards the television at the other end of the cafe - a primitive thing of cathode ray-tubes and copper wiring, completely unlike the Warp-based holographic displays she had used in another life. But it did its job well enough of portraying the ugly face, sweaty forehead, receding grey hair, droopy cheeks, and long nose of the man purported to be the most powerful of all Humans. He was reputed to be a man of great political savvy, ruthless and ambitious, but ultimately lacking in personal skills, a fact that came across clearly on the visual mass media of these people. "I'M NOT A CROOK!" he declared, emphatically. Adrienne rolled her eyes; one need not be a psyker to see the truth (or rather lack thereof) behind the President's remarks._

 _The Human dining at the next table shook his head. "Mark my words," he declared loudly to the friend sitting with him, "you'll NEVER see a more screwed up time in this country!" Oh, I wouldn't be so sure of that, she smirked; she could think of a myriad different ways things could and would get so much worse for these deserving beings._

 _These Humans... funny creatures, all of them. They are like a mockery of us – they look like us, but they are so much less. They are so weak in mind, body, and spirit, completely lacking in the psychic touch. They are so easily manipulated, so ignorant and short-sighted thanks to their pathetically short lives. They are so painfully primitive, they have only just landed one of their own on their moon! (Though then again, the fact remained that only a mere century ago they were still utterly dependent on horses and slaves and dirty filthy coal, so perhaps some credit was due unto them)._

 _She despised them, and yet, at the same time, being trapped here and having been forced to live among them, she had to admit she had come to find them oddly endearing in many ways. Their lives were pathetic and short, but they seemed so driven and determined to make the most of what little time they had. Even if that usually meant dedicating their life-energies to noble and admirable but naive and often misguided causes; whether it be lines on a map or colors on a flag, or some vague and abstract ideas like "equality" or "world peace" or "Civil Rights" and so forth._

 _In any case, she was stuck here for the foreseeable future, so she had no choice but to make the best of the situation. Far as she could tell, it would probably be at least another century-and-a-half or so before she could finally put her plans into action. Beside that, she knew of at least one Human who commanded her respect and awe. That, and there was indeed one art and one alone in which the Humans could rightfully consider themselves the equal to her people, and it was in their music. Right now the radio (another of their crude but functional devices, though one could argue the scratches and hisses added some appeal to the music) was blaring away with one of her favorite compositions, by a performing troupe who called themselves by the name "Lead Zeppelin"..._

Adora snapped to. For a moment, she could still hear in her mind the repeating staccato riff of the lead guitarist, or the distinctive wail of the vocals, not sure if this was a vision or reality. Gradually, though, her vision cleared, and the first thing her eyes beheld was (again!) that cheap plastic toy of the Peanut Farmer, its head continuing to bob up and down, as if mocking her. She groaned.

She was still lying down there, in the Navy man's office that had become like her own personal torture cell. Outside, the fire alarm was still wailing loudly. She had removed most of the poison – tiny traces of it still lingered here and there, but she would live. For now. She supposed that was about as good news as she could have hoped for at this moment.

Wearily, she clambered to her feet, knees bent inward, gripping onto the desk for support. She was a right mess, wasn't she? _Ugh, that's just lovely_ , she reminded herself, bitterly, _the Gods, in their infinite wisdom, made it so that our blood and our shit too turns to crystal, but evidently not our puke. Fantastic!_

Her head still felt like the morning after one of those rowdy "all senses awakening nights" she used to partake in back in her younger and considerably less mature days, millennia ago. But at least she was thinking a little more clearly than before. She tried out the vision again.

Around here, the world turned dark, though Adora could still see the room and the world immediately beyond, all traced out clearly in glowing white lines. She could sense the Humans by their souls in the Warp – could see the myriad souls of all the Americans around here, the wounded and dead where the two missiles had detonated, the rescue workers and emergency first responders tending to them. She could see the boys in their uniforms, with their little toys, frantically combing through the entire building, in pursuit of their target.

Further afield, she could catch sense the mass panic, the rioting and looting spreading throughout the millions of inhabitants of the city and, just to the south, she could catch glimpses of the conflict boiling just beyond the horizon: fighter jets and missiles rocketing through the air, while below squadrons of jeeps, tanks, armored personnel carriers, or those brand new "Humvee" cars advancing across the fields and woods. Out at sea, a fleet of large warships, including one that was like an ancient ironclad warrior of a bygone era, were sailing full steam ahead to the scene.

And she could see the Assassin too, though just barely, more like a mist stalking through the hallways of the building than a single, physical person. From what she understood, these Assassins were frequently used by this "Imperium Of Mon'Keigh" to hunt down members of her own kin in that dark millennium from whence they came, and so she imagined some modicum of learning how to obscure (if not entirely conceal) their presence in the Warp was an essential qualification for the job.

From the looks of it, the boys of "Alpha Team" had done their work, but not by much. She would have to move in the next few seconds. She was just about to do just that, but then paused. There was something else she could sense through the Warp, something she had not felt in a while. It was oddly familiar and reassuring to Adora; she could have smiled weakly, but stopped herself, for there was no promise that it would be exactly what she thought it was. But right now, it was her only hope that she could think of; for otherwise she knew this Assassin would pursue her to the ends of this planet and back, that much was clear.

Adora pushed herself forward from the desk and took a cautious few steps. At least she could walk again. She opened the door, checked the hallway once more, and set off.

* * *

 **Elsewhere:**

"Movement, nine o'clock," warned Capt. Packard, the ticking on the reader spiking slightly. The special agent – "Adrienne", he recalled her name was – had warned them that they would be dealing with an ultra-elite ninja assassin who could evade the best detection systems to the point of being virtually invisible, but there were work-arounds. Alpha Team were all dead to the last man, God have mercy on their souls, but at least one of them had landed a shot on the bitch.

The boxlike device he was holding in his left hand was large and clunky; it was secured around his shoulder by a strap, but in order to read it, he needed at least one hand to hold it at all times. It was ticking away when he pointed it down the hallway to his left; the little red glowing seven-segment numerals displayed a distance of 21.3 meters... and closing.

Out of a couple dozen special passive integrated transponder (PIT) tag-equipped rounds that had been handed out to Alpha Team (some newfangled thing the DoD just _conveniently_ had lying around their _secret warehouse_ or whatever, no doubt; those and the depleted uranium-tipped rounds as well), all but one of them had been accounted for back in the cafeteria, found embedded in the walls or in the furniture. The one missing round though was on the move, which meant one thing.

Alpha Team had tried and failed to end the bitch's rampage, but thanks to their sacrifices, Bravo Team now had a chance to make good on their work and finish the job. To this end, Bravo Team had brought up some heavier ordnance. Packard turned around to see Chapman and Cole coming up right behind him, each brandishing a Milkor grenade launcher. Corporal Nieves came up behind them, packing what looked like a shotgun but was actually a special pump-action "China Lake" grenade launcher, very rare thing – the brass musta cracked it out just for this special occasion. Packard himself was toting his trusty Winchester M97 in his right hand, you know, for "close encounters".

All of this and yet, if Packard was being entirely honesty with himself, he was scared out of his Goddamn mind. This _thing_ , whatever it was, had torn through Alpha Team like they were wet tissue paper. 30 men, all shooting at it with just about everything but the kitchen sink, and it still got away. Oh God, he wasn't going to be forgetting the fucking _massacre_ they had just seen in the cafeteria on their way here; it brought back unpleasant memories of 'Nam.

The only good news was that it looked like Alpha Team had managed to score a few hits on the bitch, judging by the weird blood they'd found splattered in several places. At the very least this thing _bled_ , and if it bled, that meant...

"We got movement!" warned Packard again, "18 meters and closing!" Bravo-Team had reached a junction where one of the corridors running from the inner ring to the outer ring intersected with a corridor that followed C-Ring. At his signal, everyone took up firing positions on either side of the opening to the hallway.

"15 meters and closing!" warned Packard.

"I don't see shit," remarked Cole.

"You think she could be up in the air vents?" piped up Chapman, looking up nervously at the grate right above his head.

"Don't be silly, those are way too small for a person!"

"I dunno man," added Billy, one of the other men in the squad, "she's a shape-shifter or some crap like that, right? Maybe she can turn into a snake."

Packard held his right hand up, calling for silence, and checked the radar again. 9 meters and closing. He dropped the radar gun and reached for his shotgun. It had an under-attached flashlight; he clicked it on and then shone it down the hallway.

The light's beam illuminated a woman approaching them, with red hair and blue dress, high heels clacking loudly along the floor. It was Adrienne. She was sobbing uncontrollably and limping, a bullethole in her right thigh was visibly bleeding. No wonder she had set off the radar; she must've gotten hit by a stray PIT round during the firefight in the cafeteria.

"She's wounded!" piped up Pvt. Chapman, stepping forward, "sir, we gotta help her!"

Packard, however, wasn't so sure about this. "Hold it right there!" he commanded; aiming his shotgun at the woman. Something was fishy about the whole situation, and if serving in the Army all these years now, having lived through 'Nam and whatnot, had taught Packard anything, it was to always trust his gut. "If you can walk, you can _talk_!" he shouted, "what's wrong?"

Adrienne did not answer right away, and continued gibbering away, as if delirious with fear.

"English, _bitch_!" growled Packard, "do you speak it?"

Adrienne stared at him for a moment, unsure of what to say next.

"It's her!" shouted Packard, and pulled the trigger.

* * *

 **Another time and place:**

 _A dark warehouse somewhere, only a single electric light glowed from a hanging fixture – a primitive and blearing incandescent lightbulb. Directly beneath the light, a man was tied to a wooden chair with lengths of barbed wire. He had been stripped completely naked, to rid him of any weapons or other objects he may have been carrying; the rusted iron barbs cut savagely into his wrists, shins, and waist. Blood was dripping down his arms and legs, forming a puddle at his feet, and his skin was severely lacerated, bruised, rubbed raw and peeling away._

 _She circled him, slowly, like a hungry hawk. Her prisoner was a Human male, but one that she knew was radically different from anyone else on this planet. She looked at one of the many small effects and items she had removed from him, objects that were not of this world. This one was a badge, two stylized letter I's crossed, with an hourglass inscribed in the center, the symbol of the group that called themselves "the Ordo Chronos"..._

" _So, Mr. Inquisitor," she began, adopting an affable tone, "oh please do tell me more about the 40th millennium."_

 _Her prisoner glared at her, and retorted, defiantly: "may the Emperor damn you eternally, Xenos witch! You and your entire abhorrent race!"_

" _Ah, yes, about your so-called 'Emperor'. You see, I'm afraid I..." she began, but was interrupted when he spat in her face._

 _The glob of saliva stopped in front of her face, hovered in mid-air for a second, and then dropped to the floor. She was not amused. "Very well then, Mr. Inquisitor," she replied, calmly, "a pity, I was hoping we could do this the easy way." She then laid her right palm across his forehead. Let's see you're hiding in there..._

She heard screaming next, but it wasn't the Inquisitor's. Adora's mind flashed back to reality. There was a bloodcurdling scream accompanied by gunshots echoing through the hallways. Well, at least she knew exactly where the Assassin was, but it was not very far behind. She limped onwards, her mind set on the destination ahead of her.

* * *

 **Elsewhere.**

Only one of the men was still alive; he was slumped with his back against the wall, a deep stab wound in his torso. As Sgt. Powell approached, he could see that the lone survivor had rank insignia denoting him to be a captain; the dog-tags around his neck gave his name as "PACKARD, SAMUEL M."

"Soldier," said Powell, crouching down in front of him, "what happened?"

"I think... I think..." gargled Packard, blood drooling out of his mouth, "I think... we... hurt it."

"Yes?" said Powell, "how? Where did she head to?"

"I... I... think..." continued Packard, "...bitch... left me... alive... watch _them_... my men... die." Packard tried to continue, but most of his words turned to incomprehensible rambling.

"Sarge," said Hightower, "can we save him?"

Powell looked up at Hightower. He'd seen a fair number of gangfights and shoot-outs in his time on the force, had even patched up a few folks after those. Maybe they did have a chance of saving the captain, but that would mean breaking off the pursuit. Then again... this... crazy ninja-lady had managed to cut through two squads of troops sent after her, all by herself. What good were two lowly cops like them against something like _that_? He looked back down at Packard; he sighed. Maybe this whole chase was for nothing. But at least here they might make a difference, even if it was a small one.

"Search the others," ordered Powell, "see if one of them's got a med-kit." Hightower nodded and got to work, looking for anything they could use. Powell, meanwhile, grabbed the combat knife on Packard's harness, and began cutting through the wounded infantryman's jacket and fatigues to remove them.

The walkie-talkie clipped onto Powell's belt hissed to life. "Sarge!" came Conklin's voice, "where are ya? Precinct just called, we got backup on the way. Like, finally!"

"Conklin!" replied Powell, "about damn time! We found Bravo-Team, one survivor and he's wounded; we'll need you to bring a stretcher, on the double!"

"I wonder if any of those still work," muttered Hightower, glancing at a discarded MGL on the floor nearest him, a bandolier full of 40mm grenades next to it.

* * *

 **Deep beneath the Pentagon,**  
 **Arlington, Commonwealth Of Virginia:**

The Pentagon was built back in the days of the Roosevelt administration to house the War Dept. (now called the Dept. Of Defense, because apparently "Defense" is the more politically correct term than "War") in anticipation of America's imminent entry into World War II, and with that, a massive expansion in the size of the department. It was also built almost entirely out of concrete, due to wartime steel shortages. And it was designed with twice as many bathrooms as needed, with separate facilities for whites and blacks (though, thanks to FDR's direct orders, this policy was dropped, which meant that until just 20 years ago, it was the _only_ place in all of Virginia exempt from the Commonwealth's mandatory Segregation laws).

The building's unique shape came about because it was originally to be built on the site of nearby Arlington Farms, which had a roughly pentagonal shape, before the site was moved to its current location just prior to construction commencing. Even after relocation, however, the structure maintained its distinctive shape, both to save time and money on having to redesign it, and also because FDR himself apparently liked the design.

At least, those were the _official_ reasons given. Though one had to wonder sometimes if the five-pointed shape served some other, more esoteric purpose...

Indeed, oft-overlooked was the fact that the above-ground structure was just the tip of the iceberg. For beneath it lay a vast underground network of basements, bunkers, tunnels, and of course the essential foundation piles sunk deep into the mud of the Potomac, needed to support the weight of such a massive and heavy structure sitting on what was otherwise basically a swamp.

In the deepest of these bunkers, two men sat at their station, keeping a vigil. The room around them was kitted out with bunks, lockers, weapon racks, computer and radio equipment, a side-door leading to the separate bathroom area, and stacked plastic storage bins holding enough supplies to last years, for in the event that a war ever did break out, whoever was on duty here would get sealed in for God knows how long.

At the far end of the bunker hung a pair of large flags, covering almost the entire rear wall of the room – the Star-Spangled Banner on one and on the other, the Great Seal Of The United States, the Eye Of Providence atop its unfinished pyramid, staring out blankly at all who entered the room. And behind where these flags hung stood just what exactly was so important that at least two men would continue to guard it even long after the surface world above them had been rendered uninhabitable.

"What do you think's going on up there?" asked Lt. Garvey, quietly looking up at the ceiling as if expecting to see through it or something.

His superior, Capt. Autumn frowned, unsure of what to say. Several hours ago, their shift had been just about to end and their two replacements would take over, when all of a sudden, the alarm had been raised, and the two of them had been sealed up down here since then, with no idea of anything save for several brief updates they'd received over the radio. Apparently, a war had indeed broken out, but not with the Reds as he'd been expecting, but with a new enemy. These... _aliens_ , whoever they were, had landed invasion forces all around the country, all over the whole damn world, even hitting the Reds too, but worst of all was a large ground force just a hundred miles south of here.

The last report they'd received, over half an hour ago, had warned of an enemy spy on the loose in the capital, and after that, nothing. Granted, in all the brouhaha going on upstairs, Autumn could understand that he and Garvey had probably been allotted lower priority, and that was part of their expected duties. Still, though, another update on the unfolding situation would be nice, a little something to cut the tension...

Without warning, there was a knock and a thud on the bunker's heavy steel front door. Autumn immediately stood up to see what the commotion was, but before he could do anything else, the bolt on the door slid back by itself, and the door swung open. A lone figure stood in the doorway, shrouded in darkness. Autumn grabbed his gun and shouted: "hold it right there!"

In this line of work, Autumn was told he should always expect the unexpected, but as their unannounced guest stepped forward, out from the dark tunnel and into the dim lighting of the bunker, this was perhaps the most bizarre thing he'd ever seen.

The intruder was easily 6'6", maybe more, with bloodshot eyes and long but messy auburn hair pulled to the right, exposing a single pointy ear on the left side of her bruised face. She was bare-foot, and dressed in what was probably supposed to be a blue business suit fashionable these days except that (of course Autumn would notice) her top was stained and ripped wide open, and her skirt was hanging low on her hips, missing a belt. She was covered in what could charitably be described as if she puked all over herself and then rolled around in glitter after that. And she stank strongly of alcohol and other smells he could not quite place. Autumn also noticed something sticking out of her side, what looked like a... _Sharpie_? What the? It was just poking there, held in place by a long strip of duct-tape wrapped around her midriff a couple times.

"Kovacs, Adrienne," gasped the intruder, quickly, "Sp-sp-special agent... I have authorization to-to-to access..."

"Sir, look!" exclaimed Garvey, "her ears!"

"I... I can explain..." stammered the intruder.

"Alright, ma'am, put your hands up!" demanded Autumn, sternly, "you're gonna have to answer some questions!"

The stranger rolled her eyes, looking more annoyed than worried. She raised only her left arm, and pointed it towards Autumn. Immediately, he felt as if someone had kicked him hard in the chest, for he fell backwards onto the floor, the wind knocked out of his lungs. The hell?! He tried to get back up, but found it impossible to move anything other than his eyes. Beside him, Garvey too joined him on the floor, held down by forces unseen.

Autumn could do nothing but watch as the intruder knelt down between them, took their keys, and then proceeded towards the back of the room. He tried again to pull himself back onto his feet, or at least pick his gun up from where it had clattered to the floor, but to no avail. The intruder, meanwhile, pulled the two flags aside to reveal an enormous steel door, dominating the entire rear wall of the bunker, like that you might find on a bank vault. The number "101" was painted across the front of it in large, stenciled lettering.

All told, some fifty tons of concrete and steel hung on hinges, locked in place by 24 bolts, each individually exuding a thousand pounds of pressure. The entire system, as well as the thick walls, ceilings, and floors of reinforced concrete around them, and the hundred meters or so separating them from the ground level, were all designed and built to keep this place protected, even in the event of a direct nuclear strike targeted at the Pentagon. The vault door's locking mechanism itself employed a two-step verification process – first, two separate keys that had to be turned at the same time, like for the launch of an ICBM, followed by a ten-digit passcode that was regularly changed, and that even Autumn himself wasn't privy to. And that was just for opening the door, never mind disabling the alarm.

Their intruder didn't seem all too bothered about the alarm, her attention solely on prying the door open. The two key-ports were located on either side of the vault door, far enough apart that the operation always required two men. She inserted both keys one by one, and then, before Autumn's bewildered eyes, both keys turned on their own at the same time. As for the passcode, there were trillions of possible combinations, so the intruder didn't even bother trying; instead, she grabbed the keypad, and ripped it out of the wall, exposing a nest of wiring behind it. Autumn could only look on as she fiddled around with the wiring for at least another few minutes or so, and then he heard the hiss of air escaping, followed by the collective clunk of 24 heavy steel bolts being withdrawn, and then finally, a low rumble, as the massive vault door began to slowly creak open. Warning lights began to flash, and an alarm klaxon screeched.

"ATTENTION!" boomed a prerecorded voice, "ATTENTION! WE HAVE AN UNAUTHORIZED ENTRY!"

The intruder didn't wait for the door to open fully; once the vault had opened just a foot or so, she grabbed the keys and slipped inside. She must have found the second command console on the inside, for a second later the enormous door ground to a halt, and then began to close and lock again, sealing the mysterious woman within.

The moment the vault thudded shut again, whatever force it was that had been holding Autumn and Garvey down immediately ceased. "God damn it!" he swore, struggling to get back on his feet, his head still spinning from whatever... that was. "The fuck just happened?!"

"Sir, did you see those... those ears?" piped up Garvey, next to him, "she looked like a frikkin' Vulcan! Do you think she... _mind tricked_ us?"

"That's Jedi who do that, not Vulcans, you idiot," scolded Autumn, "but beside that, we have an intruder!"

"Do you think she's the enemy spy they were warning about?" asked Garvey. His face suddenly lit up. "We've got her trapped! There's no other way in or out of the vault! We just need to engage the backup locking system and..."

And just then, the front entrance to the bunker opened again, and in walked a man in a suit.

"Mr. President?!" said Garvey, blinking in disbelief, lowering his gun.

There stood the President himself in the entrance of the bunker, looking annoyed.

He began shouting and making what sounded like orders at the two of them, gesticulating wildly towards the vault door; it seemed that he wanted them to open it, though what he said exactly was utter nonsense, only a handful of words and phrases being recognizable in the English language (and in any case they couldn't, not without the keys). Autumn was confused, it was like the old man had Alzheimer's or was suffering a stroke or something. Why would the Pres himself be here? And where were his bodyguards?

"Wait a minute," muttered Autumn. Without a second thought, he aimed his gun at the president and fired.

In front of him, the alleged president seemed to notice and performed a backflip to dodge the bullet that was way out of league for the old man. And then, sure enough, his or her or its face began to morph and warp, revealing a skull-like mask with glowing eyes and a single long braid of blonde hair protruding from its back. Shit. Well, at least things now made _slightly_ more sense.

Autumn and Garvey stood their ground and opened fire, but they didn't last very long. In the end, the big locked vault door behind them proved to be a far bigger impediment to the Assassin's progress than either of them.

* * *

 **The Vault.**

Adora could not help but to gaze around her in curiosity. A vast underground warehouse surrounded her, blaring floodlights mounted on concrete pillars or hanging down from steel rafters above while warning lights flashed, illuminating rows upon rows of hundreds of neatly stacked wooden crates and steel shipping containers. On the outside, they might have appeared plain and unassuming to the naked eye, though she knew better, could sense this whole chamber was very much alive. There were _powerful_ and _dangerous_ items resting inside some of those boxes...

Her mind focused on one such container to her immediate left, one bristling with warp energy. She took several cautious steps towards it. Could this be it? Black stenciled lettering sprayed upon the side of the box read:

 **CLASSIFIED:**  
 **Specimen No. 9906753.**  
 **Cairo, Egypt. 1936.**  
 **DO NOT OPEN.**

No, she could tell, from the date and from her own senses probing its contents, that whatever was in that box was most definitely _not_ what she was looking for. She moved on, while lights continued to flash and the loudspeakers continued to wail. "ATTENTION! ATTENTION! WE HAVE AN UNAUTHORIZED ENTRY!"

She paused to cough and gasp for air. The atmosphere inside the vault must have been artificially climate-controlled to have a higher concentration of nitrogen than usual – this was probably done to assist long-term preservation and fire suppression, but also to serve as an extra layer of security, guaranteeing that no ordinary Human could loiter here for long without appropriate breathing apparatus. Adora considered herself far above any Human (with one and only _one_ notable exception), and even she was starting to feel a little light-headed – probably not from hypoxia alone, but from a cumulative of everything: fatigue, blood-loss, not to mention the tiny residues of the poison still lingering in her veins...

Her senses alerted her to a new presence in the room with her, something alive and not too far behind her. The little hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Adora quickened her pace.

There. Up ahead of her. From this distance, her weary eyes could just make out the number and date stenciled on the side of it. _Roswell, New Mexico. 1947_. That must be it. She limped up to the box, fast as her legs could carry her. Yes, this was it, she could feel it. Without wasting a second more, she dug her nails into the side, and, with whatever strength she had left, pulled. The top of the crate broke off, and then she plunged her hand into the breach and found...

* * *

 **Not too far behind...**

D'halia dashed along the top of a row of steel shipping containers. This place around her - it must be some kind of repository where the natives kept all manner of secrets and buried treasures hidden, and for good reason, for she could already get a sense of just what kind of heresies lay stored within these walls. Inquisitor Tarkien would have to be notified of this – once she was done with the witch.

As much as she hated to admit it, she had to give the natives some credit. They were primitively-armed and equipped, but they were learning quickly, and they fought bravely – even if it was in the service of a _Xenos_. She had lost precious few minutes having to stop to patch up her injuries again after that second firefight.

And she had lost further time still cutting through the entrance to this secret lair. What a task that had been; the blast door was evidently designed to withstand even if a regular atomic device were to be detonated right on the surface above. There was little in the material universe that could stop a Phase Sword, but there had still been plenty of door to cut through.

Her sensors alerted her to movement a few hundred feet ahead of her. D'halia smiled. Her target was trapped, cornered. She dashed along the tops of the containers until she reached the end of this row, and looked down. Below, she could see the Xenos witch there, reduced to a walking wreck, a shadow of its former self, cowering in the darkness. Now would be the moment to put it out of its misery for good. Without further ado, D'halia leapt into the air, sword raised high.

Time seemed to stand still as she sailed through the air. In front of her, the pathetic creature must have been made aware of her presence, because it turned around immediately to face her, heaving something big and heavy out of the box next to it in the process. In the blink of an eye, D'halia beheld an enormous sword – a long blade of shimmering and constantly changing colors of white and gold and red, elaborate and alien runes and patterns carved into it, a large and brightly glowing azure jewel set into its hilt. And she beheld the Xenos' face, its expression brave and defiant to the end, as it took a step forward, raising the blade in front of her...

 _ **CLANG!**_

The two swords connected, locked, and froze in mid-air. Sparks of eldritch energies, some bright and colorful, others dark like black lightning, fizzled and crackled and flew everywhere, accompanied by a piercing screaming through the warp.

D'halia Qwen'zel was a trained and experienced operative of the Officio Assassinorum, had served just over thirty standard Terra years and in that time had undertaken _hundreds_ of missions, had killed everything from traitorous generals to Daemons to others of this Xenos witch's ilk. As such, there was little in this universe that could genuinely surprise her. But this was one of them. What... what... _what in this Emperor forsaken universe could block a Phase Blade_?

This was the question still burning through her mind when her opponent, taking advantage of her momentary confusion, raised a leg and kicked her – and with such force too that she went flying, hitting the ground some thirty feet away.

D'halia, nimble like a cat, landed on both feet. When she looked back, she could see the Xenos witch standing there, rising to its full height. Clutching its sword tightly with both hands, it thrust it straight up towards the ceiling, and spoke words in a language D'halia could not identify – this must have been some fell ancient tongue of its people, one not used for thousands of years.

Whatever the witch said, arcs of lightning began cascading around it, shooting _out from_ the sword (or _into_ it, it was hard to see exactly); D'halia tried to rush back at her opponent, but could not, for the lightning seemed to form an impenetrable, if only momentary, shield around it. Meanwhile, above it, several of the primitive lighting fixtures hanging down from the ceiling began to glow brighter and brighter and then shattered, showering shards of glass everywhere.

Elsewhere, she noticed several other wooden crates explode into splinters, whatever was contained within them seemingly having come to life and now hurtling through the air. D'halia had to act swiftly on her toes, ducking and dodging just to avoid getting hit, though out of the corner of her vision, she did notice one of the mystery objects strike the witch and begin wrapping itself around it.

And when the lightning finally dispersed, she saw the Xenos witch striding slowly towards her, except now it covered head to toe in polished dark blue armor lined with whitish gold; a cape unfurled behind it, fluttering as if there were an indoor breeze. Its pathetic face was now concealed behind an elaborate but expressionless winged helmet, broken up by two glowing red eye-slits. The witch clutched its sword in its right hand, dragging it along the floor, the cement cracking and sparking wherever the blade touched it, while its left hand glowed and buzzed with warp energy.

"You poisoned me," it spoke, in a mildly annoyed tone (and yes, its speech was accompanied by that familiar reverberation that D'halia absolutely _despised_ ).

Undaunted, D'halia adopted a fighting posture and raised her own sword to meet this oncoming threat. "Bring it on, _Xenos whore_!" she spat, and charged.

* * *

 _ **Writer's End-Notes:** just like Karl, Adora is a character who often has psychic visions, some of which can be quite abstract. Since several readers wrote to me expressing confusion and requesting clarification, I thought I'd include this brief summary of the flashbacks seen in this chapter and the previous one (though feel free to ignore this summary if you want to preserve their "mystery"). Here are the scenes: _

_(1) Long ago, Adora is on her homeworld, the Crone World of Druidia, where she stands trial for a crime that is yet to be revealed. Her alleged victim is a high-ranking Eldar noble, Shaha Gaathon.  
_

 _(2) Years later, Adora, having escaped imprisonment on Druidia, is leading a band of renegade Eldar (including her Gyrinx, Kringer) on some quest across the galaxy. They arrive in orbit over Earth._

 _(3) For reasons as yet unknown, their spaceship crashes on Earth with Adora as the only survivor (revealed by the clues in this chapter to have been the Roswell Crash)._

 _(4) Adora, having adopted the disguise and false identity of "Adrienne Kovacs", is living on Earth among Humans. She despises Humanity, but she's alone, isolated, and stranded here, so she has no choice but to adapt and make the best of things. The year is 1973, and the man she's watching on television is Richard Nixon._

 _(5) Adora has captured a time-traveling Ordo Chronos agent from the future. She tortures him for information about the future, about the Imperium, the Inquisition, the fate of the Eldar, everything. She's not going to like what she hears.  
_


	26. Smoke From A Distant Fire

_**Writer's Notes** : And we're back! I needed that nice long break. This next chapter was written by **CaekDaemon** , author of such works as "Many Sons Of Winter" and "Dragon Of Harrenhal". Please join me in thanking Caek for his contribution, and let's get this started. _

* * *

**Chapter XXVI:**

 **SMOKE FROM A DISTANT FIRE** **  
**

 **City Of "Hawahssah", Land Of "Eee-thee-oh-pee-ah".**

The flight from the village of the land of " _Soo-dan"_ to this city of " _Hawahssah"_ was a long journey, but it was also a silent one, a silence but for the quiet thrum's of the Thunderhawk's engines reverberating through its frame and into the spacious bay and the occasional clicking of the voxs of his brothers as they spoke amongst themselves in private, leaving their Apothecary to contemplate in quiet and without interruption... and contemplate he did.

He had warred in the service of Chapter and Emperor for more than two hundred years, against traitors and xenos alike, yet in all his years of service he had never seen an event like that which had occurred over these last few hours - never, not during the Badab War where the armies of the Emperor clashed against one another at the behest of a madman and a traitor, nor before then at Armageddon, where he walked the barren wastes of old battlefields escorting the scared and helpless refugees from the embattled hives. How could an entire invasion force be routed from one world and sent across the great depths of space to another, and all in a moment no longer than that of a heartbeat?

His age and experience and knowledge told him that it should have been impossible, the kind of tale that frightened the men of the Astra Militarum over untruths and filled the hearts of the less experienced brothers of his chapter with a desire to make battle and seek glory in a quest to defeat the foe, quests that he knew to have led many into grim odds that did nothing but waste the lives of promising men in pointless defeats.

Yet he could not deny it, either, for the very same experience that should have made him doubt it told him that the briefest glance to the skies above an embattled world should have revealed the _Pyre Of Glory_ in all its majesty and the rest of the invasion fleet with it, casting long shadows across the world below and filling the day with the flashes of their batteries as they laid down supporting fire from above. It told him that he should have been able to simply speak into his vox and hear the voices of those brothers who had remained in orbit, assembling for the next wave of the invasion and preparing to bring down supplies of ammunition and fuel and vehicles for the rest of the campaign, as well as securing areas where the loyalist population of Terra Nova could rest and hide in safety whilst their world was restored to them, as the Primarch would have wanted. It told him that the forces of the Ruinous Powers should never be underestimated no matter the circumstance, that they were so dangerous because they were so unpredictable, as likely to turn on themselves in their madness as they were to attack the Imperium, truly chaotic in nature, but that only raised the question of why?

Why were they sent here, to whatever world this was, where Gothic had yet to take root and replace the tongues of the masses? Why were they not destroyed utterly? What could possibly be their plan in sparing them and delivering them here?

It puzzled him, gnawed at him, and even the joy he felt for saving the life of an innocent child's mother was not enough to make him set the matter aside. Only the thought of seeing his brother-captain and his officers again could settle his uncertainty, for whilst the Apothecary was a seasoned warrior in his own right, so were the ones that made up the retinue of his company's Captain, all with their own views, their own expertise, their own experiences with which to provide precious insight when it was needed most.

 _Our company was decimated in the Badab War,_ the Apothecary thought. _But those of us who survived it and all the battles before have the experience we need to find an answer of some kind... hmmm. Perhaps the traitor-governor enlisted the aide of Warp sorcerers to support his defiance?_

Then there was a louder click of the vox that managed to draw the Apothecary from his thoughts and reflections, the conversations of his brothers no longer private.

"Brother-Apothecary," Sergeant Ko'van said with the utmost respect, meeting him with helmeted eyes. "We will be landing within a few moments, though the pilots have received orders to go south east of here after we arrive. They say that they have made contact with more of our brothers on a great island."

"It seems our forces were not so dispersed as I might have feared," the Apothecary noted calmly, not showing any of the uncertainty that was within. "Is there any news of wounded in need of my aid?"

"None so far, brother," Ko'van nodded with knowing understanding. "Whatever scattered our drop appears to have done so without placing our brother's in harm's way."

"Then let us hope that I will continue to have little to do," was Mac'am's reply. "It is an honor to be entrusted with the task of collecting the Chapter's due, but a grim duty all the same. I take no pleasure in it."

"I would be more concerned if you did, Brother-Apothecary," the Sergeant answered with a rare joke before becoming stoic and steady once more. "Still, there is no saying whether or not our cousin chapters have had such fortunes, or whether their own Apothecaries are available to tend to their wounded or slain. You may have to do with them what was done in the Badab War."

"Brother Apothecary, you fought in the Badab War?" the rarely spoken Fwe'go asked, intrigued.

"Indeed I did," Mac'am said as he turned his attentions to to the younger and less experienced brother. "We did our duty, but many of our brothers fell in that campaign. Few men or machines returned unmarked; the company was reduced to half its strength by the time the war ended, but some of our allies were even more bloodied than we and lost their own Apothecaries. Their geneseed would have been lost, were it not for their fellow chapters and myself assisting them in their recovery. A greater honor I have not yet been given."

Amongst the vast armies of the Imperium, it was common for the great Thunderhawks of the Astartes and other, similar surface-to-orbit craft to travel with their holds kept in almost complete darkness, for any of the Emperor's angels of death had a sense of sight at night far above that of any man who lacked the implantations and organs that separated the Adeptus Astartes from their more mortal allies. It was a sense amplified and honed to perfection by the complex array of photolenses and auto-senses within their helms to so great an extent that they might see well even in the darkest of caverns, or on worlds that had long since been thrown away from their stars to travel the depths of space alone, rogue worlds that had not felt the warmth of a sun upon their frozen surface for millennia or more. Such energies for lighting could instead be diverted to other areas, where even the slightest drop of power could become precious in an emergency, and such things meant that the inner depths of the Thunderhawk had been almost entirely dark before the lights came on again, as great a sign of their imminent arrival as the sound of the Thunderhawk's engines beginning to growl as they quietened and the trembling he felt beneath him as mechanisms worked to extend its struts.

There was a loud _thump_ that shook his seat, and then silence.

A heartbeat and a breath later and he heard the whispering hiss of the seal breaking as the door began to lower into a ramp, the spartan compartment flooding with the brilliant light of the sun. He rose to stand, and instantly his brothers stood with him, the clicks of the vox disappearing into the noise of their footsteps as they marched in double line into the day...

...and the Apothecary could only pause as he allowed himself a smile at the feeling of solid earth beneath him again, concrete, surveying the ground around to see the black and green colors of the company and chapter banners flying high above it all, fluttering in the gentle northerly winds over the grounds that his brothers and his Captain had taken for their base of operations. A place of warehouses and workshops and storage dumps and cranes, it was surely a manufacturing plant of some kind. He could not be entirely sure of its exact purpose and nature in the way that his Brother-Techmarine Vu'shal could, but what he could see, what he could understand and know, was that it was large enough to serve as a place where the company could rally its strength, to organize.

All around he could see his brothers working to establish their foothold upon this unexpected world, with some of them unloading supplies from recovered drop pods and gathering them into an empty warehouse that had been made to serve as an ordnance depot, whilst others still instead put their great strength to use to create simple defenses and barricades with which to protect the grounds in the event of siege, carrying barrels and bricks and even pushing what could only be this world's equivalent of a shipping container to reinforce the chain link fences that marked the edge of the grounds. The great vehicles of the chapter moved openly, rolling on the concrete between buildings and aiding the brothers on foot in the process of preparing the grounds, ferrying drop pods and Tarantula Sentry Guns to their final destinations, all whilst sparks bounced out of the workshops where his brothers were putting their skills at the forge and at crafting to work, making the parts that they needed to establish their base of operations.

And all that was whilst the native people of the land watched with awe, some of his brothers even aiding them in their tasks just as some of the locals aided the Salamanders in their own work, with all of them clearly amazed by the sight of the Astartes and their massive machines and mighty battle armors. Such things were not an uncommon sight in the Imperium - indeed, many worlds that were visited by the Space Marines of any chapter often greeted them eagerly and did whatever they could to aid them in their missions even without needing to have resources requisitioned to do so - but never did it disappoint him to see their presence appreciated and welcomed with open arms, even if many of the people seemed to be more afraid or anxious than not.

 _For good reason,_ the Apothecary noted. _Astartes do not show up on a world unannounced if there is not something gravely wrong, even on a world of the Imperium._

"It is good to see you again, Brother-Apothecary," came the voice of Brother-Ancient Te'boc through his scarred helmet, the company standard kept tight in his left hand even as he rested his right upon the pommel of his blade. "Captain Mir'san requested your presence upon your arrival. He means to hold a meeting of his officers to determine our next course."

"I shall not keep him waiting," the Apothecary said as he stepped forward before turning his attentions to Tactical Sergeant Ko'van, who already stood first amongst the brothers of their squad. "Command of the squad is yours, Brother-Sergeant. There is surely much work to be done if this is to be our base of operations, and few brothers to do it."

"I will find a place for them and for the others as well," the Tactical Sergeant nodded before turning to the rest of the squad and the other marines who had disembarked with them, taking command as the Apothecary and the Standard Bearer walked and as the Thunderhawk departed for the next pickup, kicking up the loose earth as its engines roared back to life.

"Tell me, Brother-Ancient, has there been any more information gathered during my flight?"

Brother-Ancient Te'boc was one of the Company's oldest warriors, having joined the ranks of the Second Company at the same time as Captain Pellas Mir'san centuries before, but whereas Mir'san had risen to the greatest of glories and been given the place of captain, the Brother-Ancient had never distinguished himself in such a manner, no, yet he was as reliable as he was strong and as good of aim as he was willing to protect his charges from harm, all things that had made him perfect for the role of protecting the Company's standard from harm. Yet even he had nearly been claimed during the war, as his battle scarred helm showed best of all, for a Kraken round from an Astral Claws bolter had struck his pauldron only to bounce off into the cheek of his Aquila helm and penetrate... but which had - by the grace of the Emperor - failed to detonate due to a faulty cap before burying itself halfway through the other cheek. The Apothecary considered himself a skilled surgeon, able to save the lives of many of those who would have otherwise been felled on the battlefield, but the fact that the Brother-Ancient still lived at all was a miracle rather than a testament of his expertise, for there were half a hundred ways Te'boc could have died from that one round alone.

And the cost to the Company from his death would have been grave, for more than anything else, the Brother-Ancient had vast experience, hard earnt from thousands of battles and scores of campaigns, and with the company so bled by the Badab War as to be forced to carry out training exercises so as to blood its newest members and ready them for the wars to come such a wealth of knowledge was truly valuable.

"I wish I could say that it was so, Brother-Apothecary," Te'boc answered, his words warped ever-so-slightly from the bionic that had been used to replace so much of his jaw. "We have been able to gather little information about our surroundings thus far, only that it seems that the entirety of the first and second waves of the assault force had been brought along with us. One of the supply containers for our allies in the New Cadian 501st Regiment, was found at the edge of the city. However, the Captain saw fit to have it incinerated rather than recover it."

"How so?"

"It had been... warped," the Brother-Ancient said with the barest hint of uncertainty. "Whatever force brought it to the world had seen fit to merge it with a road. Brother-Techmarine Vu'shal believes it had been dispatched by teleportarium, for rapid resupply of their troops already on the ground, but whatever event brought us here disrupted the signal enough to fuse it."

"All the more reason to be grateful that the captain made no use of our own teleportarium," the Apothecary replied after a moment's silence as the pair reached the main warehouse in the center of the industrial park, a place where a pair of his brothers stood on guard besides a large shuttered entrance, perhaps a loading bay for local vehicles.

"The Brother-Captain has established his command center here, Brother-Apothecary," Te'boc said, walking towards a small pair of buttons besides the door and with a tap of an oversized finger, gentle to avoid breaking the fragile circuitry, the door began to rise...

...and it revealed the beating heart of their company's presence on this strange new world, the nerve center of what should have been an invasion force destined for Terra Nova. And though the building's exterior was plain enough and fitted well with the rest of the local architecture, within its walls the Imperium stood dominant once more. Great shelves and crates of raw materials and machined goods had been pushed to the far walls or transferred to other sites, freeing up the internal space of the greatest of buildings to become home to the greatest of their things, home to a vehicle that was a giant amongst dwarfs and which seemed to fill half the building with its massive bulk, stretching from wall to wall. Every part of it bristled with weapons, from the twin linked assault cannons that could shred through even the greatest formations of infantry that was placed upon its front or the massive Flamestorm cannons on its flanks, housed within armored sponsons, bunkers of adamantine and plasteel and ceramite that could shrug off the cannons of traitor or alien alike. On its front was the great skull of a Nocturnean salamander, its jaws open in death in a snarl that would only have been half as terrible as it had been in life, and its great fireproof scales of emerald green covered the hull as though they were another layer of armor and paint, sheets fastened together with clasps of Nocturnean iron forged by hand into the symbols of the smith, into hammers and anvils and tongs and all the other things that Vulkan had used before the arrival of his father in the guise of the Outlander.

It was the mobile command center of their company, from where their actions had be conducted and the company's forces directed into a hammer that could shatter the enemies of man.

It was the Nocturne's Flame, whose history went back more than a millenia and which had fought gloriously in a thousand victorious battles as the deadly tip of the Second Company's advance.

It was a Land Raider Redeemer.

And stood before it was Brother-Epistolary Lik'al in his blue armor, who examined the Apothecary curiously from the far side of the room with Force Staff in hand from within his Psychic Hood, alongside which stood Brother-Techmarine Vu'shal in his red, the many limbs and tendrils of his servoharness seeming to perk up and come alive at the sight of the white Apothecary before returning to their work - tightening the Land Raider's treads and hardening the suspension for better handling in urban environments.

And in front of them all was his captain.

Apothecary Mac'am could say with pride that he was amongst the oldest of the Salamanders, a seasoned warrior before which the younger and less experienced marines bowed in their trainings in deference and to which they looked to for guidance on the battlefield. But Captain Pellas Mir'san was older still, an honored ancient a hundred years over the Apothecary's age, and veteran of tens of thousands of battlefields across the length and breadth of the Imperium. He had fought on the surface of every form of world that could be found within humanity's dominion, from the great hive spires of Armageddon, to the deepest jungles of the death world Gargathea III, and even the bloody hallways of the _Pyre Of Glory_ in the darkest moments of the Badab War, when the very battle barge of their company had been boarded by the Astral Claws and erupted into such fighting as to see entire decks vented to space.

More, he was a master swordsman, having served as Company Champion for many years before his ascension to Captain, something well shown in his works at the forge where he had crafted not a great and mighty power sword with which to cleave his foes in twain with a two handed grip, but a simple dagger, a small and almost innocuous thing he fought with in his left hand as he wielded the blade of his position in the right, using the very same fighting style he had honed and perfected from years at his captain's side to cut down his foes, allowing them to strike first so that he could force their weapon and their greatest defense to the side and let his power sword plunge into their breast. Such a fighting style was reflected well in his doctrine on the battlefield, for a Captain of the Adeptus Astartes was not only a fighter, but was also a tactician of superhuman ability, able to survey the fields of war and determine in an instant the best way for them to achieve victory, with every Captain of every Chapter having their own unique view of how to make war in the Emperor's name. Captain Pellas Mir'san had an approach that saw his men probe the enemy force till a weak spot had been found in the defenses of his enemy that could be exploited to devastating effect in fast, hammering blows to beat them off balance and open the way for their allies.

But he was more than just a resourceful fighter of great renown or a skillful tactician able to lead his brothers to victory. He was a son of Vulkan. He was an example of their beloved Primarch's philosophy and the teachings of the Promethean Cult he had founded, and though he had many great deeds with which to secure his legacy, it was his compassion and his humility that earnt him the admiration of the brothers beneath his command.

It was the greatest of Vulkan's teachings.

 _Do not forget the ore from which the iron is forged or the fuel from which the flames burn,_ Mac'am remembered in an instant, the text memorized. _Do not forget the human that you once were._

They were simple words, yet they shaped the chapter more than any other and it was they that made the Apothecary admire his captain so, for he knew that he remembered that lesson most of all.

And it was for that reason that he knelt before his Captain without even a moment's hesitation.

"Rise, Brother-Apothecary Mac'am," his captain commanded with helmet under arm, revealing the onyx skin marked with numerous cracks and scars like burnt timber... before softening as the Apothecary rose to his feet. "It is good to see you again, Apothecary. Brother Lik'al thought you may have been lost in the transition."

"Likewise, Brother-Captain Mir'san," the Apothecary nodded before removing his own helmet and placing it under his arm... before looking around to see that one of the brothers of the Salamander's second company's command remained lost. "Has Brother-Champion Po'harn yet to be found?"

"Unfortunately so, Brother-Apothecary," the Captain said. "We have reason to believe that he might well have never made it to the ground at all before whatever force brought us here occurred. Brother Vu'shal informs me that his drop pod was hit by ground fire during descent moments before we arrived here."

"Even still, my Captain, I cannot be sure that he was slain," the Techmarine cautioned, facing his brothers once more as a mechadendrite reached into the Nocturne's Flame and removed a holographic display from within, slowly slithering through the air like a steel serpent to place it in the midst of the brothers. "A glancing blow would still recognize as a hit on auspex. Perhaps his pod was only damaged or knocked off course?"

"There is also the possibility that the Brother-Champion was simply not brought along with us," the Epistolary considered, crimson eyes narrowing in thought. "It is clear that whatever force brought us here was able to choose which forces came and which did not, else the _Pyre Of Glory_ would be seen in our skies still."

"I loathe to imagine what might have befallen our brothers then," the Ancient Te'boc said grimly. "He would have plunged into the heart of the enemy defenses with no reinforcements behind him or forces on the ground to support."

"Even still, Brother Po'harn was not named Company Champion without reason," the Apothecary reasoned. "Wherever he is, I am sure there are few threats that he cannot meet with blade in hand and bravery in heart."

"Whatever the cause and whatever his situation, we must assume, for now, that he has been separated from us and will remain so for some time," the Captain said at last to his officers, voice softening and lowering so that he might not be heard outside the walls. "We will need to plan without him, but first, we must make sure that we might understand our situation, what force it was that brought us here, so that we might be able to protect ourselves against it in the future. We serve the Emperor and the Imperium little with our forces scattered across the stars."

It was often said that the sons of Vulkan had a tendency for being stubborn, unwilling to change their views to match changing situations, sometimes even said to be slow to match the pace of their cousins on the advance and in adapting to the chaos of the battlefield. But such words were nothing more than a half-truth: their homeworld of Nocturne was a world with a raging core forever made all the more furious by the close proximity of its great moon, Prometheus, creating a land where the ground could tear open in an instant to create chasms filled with fire and toxic smoke. Every step needed to be calculated, considered, less one bring upon themselves their own doom with a mistake brought about by their haste and make the earth beneath their feet give way and collapse into the caverns and magma seas beneath. It was caution, plain and simple, and it was such cautions that were reinforced by the psycho-conditioning of the chapter, where such cautions were reinforced with the aim of ensuring that the brothers did not lose themselves in battle and grow reckless or impetuous and risk themselves in dangerous gambles or do things that might risk the lives of their brothers for a moment's advantage. It was that which caused the brothers of the Salamanders to seem so stubborn in comparison to their kin, for like the tribesmen of their homeworld, they knew the value of ensuring that their next move was the correct one, the value of planning in advance, and like well tempered steel they could use such plans to adapt to their changing situation.

But they must first plan. Unite their information and their opinions. Combine their views into the greater whole. This was something that Captain Mir'san often did, and for that the Apothecary was more than grateful. The familiarity of it on an unfamiliar world following an unexpected event was almost comforting, in its own way.

"Please, Brother-Apothecary, explain what it was that occurred before you came here," the Epistolary asked. "The more information we have about our transitions, the better we might understand."

"My situation was surely not much different than your own, Brother-Epistolary," Mac'am spoke with a respectful nod. "We were still in the midst of planetfall when I and my brothers heard the guns of the Terra Novan Planetary Defense Force fall silent. We had assumed that the Brother-Captain and the first wave had overrun the battery."

"Unfortunately, you would be incorrect," the Captain answered with a grimace. "We had only just reached the ground when we found ourselves here, in this small manufactorum. We realized that something had gone awry when the gunfire stopped before we left our pods and transports."

"After that, we heard a scream. At first, I had thought it to be that of breaking through the atmosphere."

"A scream?" the Epistolary asked as though he knew the answer. "Did the drop pod then tremble?"

"Yes, and furiously so, brother. My chronometer recorded it as lasting no more than nine seconds."

Brother Lik'al froze with such great surprise that the Salamander Apothecary would swear on the Primarch's own honor that he had never seen before.

"Did you say _nine_ seconds?"

The Apothecary nodded grimly.

"Brother-Captain... I fear the worst for what may have befallen our brothers on Terra Nova," the blue armored Librarian spoke with true concern. "I will not give the fell creatures of the Warp the pleasure of hearing their names, but the Ruinous Powers find certain numbers..."

"I know well to which you refer, Brother-Librarian," the Captain acknowledged lowly. "The Inquisition will need to hear of this, as quickly as possible. The presence of any activities by the Ruinous Powers on Terra Nova will need to be reported, _immediately_."

"At the same time, however, this surely provides us with the answer for which we were looking," the Techmarine said, finally finished with his work. "Brother-Captain, may I initiate the holoprojector?"

"You may."

There was a quiet moment where one of the Techmarine's mechadendrites reached towards and gently tapped a switch upon the wall, filling the room with darkness... and as swiftly as it came, the black was banished as the projector initiated with power drawn from the Nocturne's own reserves, crackling to life as a great emerald Aquila flooded the room with its light, illuminating the faces and helmets of his brothers before being replaced in an instant by a view of the skies of Terra Nova, as they had been moments before the drop had been completed and the brothers translocated, frozen in time. Above soared the _Pyre Of Glory_ , their battle barge and flagship, alongside those of their cousins in the Black Templars and the Crimson Fists, as well as the forces of the Astra Militarum and the Sisters of the Argent Shroud and the Inquisition, all brought to crush the rebellion beneath and all in the midst of disgorging their forces and laying down supporting bombardment. Fire from ground batteries were highlighted in scarlet, alongside the great citadels from which it originated, with names and specifications floating alongside, providing an instantaneous tactical analysis of the battlefield for them all to see and ready to be zoomed out to reveal the entirety of the world they were meant to be upon, all in complete standby and all awaiting their commands.

"Advance, one second intervals," came the Captain's voice, his hard face lit by green light. "Continue until the first disappearance."

The Techmarine nodded, and the images snapped forward one second at a time, the craft jumping forward ever so slightly as ground fire slowly made its way up. Some shots of scarlet made contact with the little sigils of green and blue and silver, both blinking out in a slow reenactment of the ground fire, but the vast majority went further up, further, into the skies where flashes appeared around the great ships of the Imperial Navy as the fire was absorbed by their void shields and returned with rage by their own batteries.

Then the first pod blinked out of existence without anything touching it. Everything halted.

"Magnify that craft."

"I only have a limited resolution from the sensors that I was carrying personally, Brother-Captain, but I will endeavor to do my best."

Then the image zoomed in upon one of the droppods of their cousin chapter, the Crimson Fists, bearing the insignia and markings of their Ninth Company, carrying their Cousin-Captain Raphael Acastus. The lowly drop pod floated in the void of the dark room, a green ghost of spectral lines...

...but the truth was there at last.

The truth was there in the form of an anomalous reading on the Techmarine's integrated auspex.

The truth was there in the form of a rift into the gaping jaws of the Immaterium, revealed only by Astartes overrides to prevent it from automatically filtering it from the eyes of those that might be damned by the knowledge of it.

"It is as I feared," the Brother-Epistolary spoke as he stepped forward, Force Staff tapping on the ground with every step. "This can be nothing but Warp sorcery. Nothing else could be so precise as to capture every pod and every Thunderhawk so easily."

"Then we surely have an even greater problem than a mere translocation," the Techmarine spoke, taking his eyes from the hologram to meet his brothers again. "The forces of Chaos would not have sent us here without a reason, and what better reason would there be than to split our forces so that they cannot support one another in battle?"

"Then we have no means to reinforce our brothers or the rest of the assault force on Terra Nova," Te'boc finished with concern. "This bodes ill. Two thirds of the company had already departed for the surface when we were brought here, and the remainder cannot hope to take a whole rebellious world by themselves, yet alone defend themselves against the Traitor Legions or their Daemonic allies."

"If this is so, then Terra Nova will be lost to us for as long as it takes for reinforcements to arrive to that world," the Epistolary sighed. "If it truly was the Ruinous Powers who made that world rise in revolt, then we will have no time to return before the rot has well and truly set in. There would be only one course of action left."

"Exterminatus," Vu'shal acknowledged before turning towards the captain. "It would be a mercy."

"That is, if Terra Nova was truly their goal," Captain Mir'san mused quietly, examining the holomap before him before looking to his officers again. "I have warred for the Imperium for many centuries now, brothers, and I have learnt many things about our enemy. They are not so foolish as to waste a chance to cause a rebellion on one of the Emperor's worlds when there is so great an amassing of his armies near, not when they know it could be crushed easily by anyone of the armies that were arriving to it."

A low silence circled the room then, a silence broken only by the sounds of a city's daily life and the soft hum of machines and the soft growls of the holographic projector as it refreshed the image above.

"...then you believe that we may have fallen into a trap?" the Apothecary asked with an uneasy voice. "That the entire rebellion on Terra Nova was nothing more than a ploy?"

"A _distraction_ , Brother-Apothecary," the Captain answered flatly. "Even the forces of the Damned would be little able to resist five full companies of Astartes, a battle group of the Imperial Guard, and the Sisterhood accompanied by an Inquisitorial envoy. We were all in the sector at the time the traitor governor renounced his fealty to the Master Of Mankind, a force that would have easily been able to overcome all Terra Novan forces with ease. Not even the most foolish of governors would make such an error."

"But if the True Enemy was whispering into his mind, corrupting his thoughts, it could begin to be seen as a sound plan," the captain said, looking to the brothers in turn. "And so he would rise in revolt and we would come to crush him, only to be translocated here, leaving the defenses of the entire sector crippled. The forces of Chaos are an insidious thing, as patient as they are cunning. If we truly have been sent to another part of the Imperium, then that ensures that our forces could take months or more for the _Pyre Of Glory_ to come to us again."

"And that is time that gives the Ruinous Powers an opening to do whatever ever they please."

"By Nocturne's flame, we have been deceived," the Ancient cursed before regaining his composure once more. "Segmentum Command must be warned as quickly as possible."

"We are in agreement, Brother-Ancient," the Captain nodded. "But first, we must plan and make our preparations. If it truly is the fault of the Ruinous Powers for us to be have been brought here, then we will need to learn more about the world to which we have been sent."

"I agree with the Brother-Captain," the Techmarine spoke, the hologram shifting once more to reveal the minor manufactorum where they found themselves now, their brothers appearing as small versions of the company crest as they carried out their work. "Our first priority should be to analyze our situation, and the first step in doing so is to determine exactly where we have arrived. We cannot hope to communicate with the greater Imperium without knowing where we are first, or whether or not we are inside the Imperium at all."

"Then I give that task to you, Brother-Techmarine, for I am certain that you are capable enough of it," the captain said. "Do whatever it takes to find out where we are in the galaxy. The closer you can get to an exact system, the more likely we will be able to determine whether or not we will be able to pass a message to Segmentum Command in time... though we are lightly equipped. Do you have what you need?"

"I could have more, Brother-Captain, but I will be able to determine our _approximate_ location," the Techmarine answered. "The Segmentum and the Sector, mayhaps Subsector, but I can give you little more than that."

"Then you will have your leave to begin as soon as the meeting is complete," the Captain said before turning his attentions to the Brother-Epistolary. "Upon our arrival here, you noted the presence of a powerful psyker. Tell me of them."

"Indeed I did, Brother-Captain, but I doubt I can give you much information of use. This being... it is amongst the most powerful minds that I have ever felt," the Librarian said. "Were it not for its presence I could perhaps use my powers to send a warning to the astropaths of the Segmentum Command, yet its power is so great..."

"Speak freely, Brother-Librarian," the Apothecary said, noticing the unease upon Lik'al's face, the Captain nodded in agreement.

"Forgive me, Brother-Captain and Brother-Apothecary," the Librarian apologized. "It is akin to standing besides a great forge and trying to find the warmth of a single ember spat out. Its power is so great that it seems to blind out the Imperium, and yet it feels... _familiar_. But I can say little more than that, brothers, not without attempting to probe it and risk revealing my presence to it."

"Do you believe it to be a threat, Brother-Librarian?" Captain Mir'san asked with an open hand, intrigued.

"A psyker of such power cannot be anything but a threat if they have no control over their powers," the Epistolary reasoned. "But... I do not believe it to be hostile, not yet, nor does it feel to be tainted by the powers of the Immaterium. I am trying to divine its exact location on this planet, but it is proving rather... difficult. It is like standing outside a hurricane and attempting to find its exact center peering in - I'm afraid I cannot peer any deeper without exposing myself to it."

"I would advise caution, Brother-Captain," the Ancient warned. "If the Ruinous Powers brought us here with a trap, then this might be yet another of their schemes."

"You are right, Brother, yet I see few alternatives," the Captain acknowledged before turning his attentions to the Librarian once more. "Brother Lik'al, I would not want to risk a confrontation with this psyker if at all possible. But you have my permission to observe it, keep a watch on its movements, and warn us immediately should it turn hostile. And if at all possible, attempt to isolate its influence so that you might send out our warning."

"Your will be done, Brother-Captain," the Librarian bowed in understanding. "I will report to you again as soon as I have anything of note."

"As for you, Brother-Apothecary, I give you the task of finding out more about the local population of this world," the Captain commanded. "You have already had some successes, from what you reported earlier."

"Only limited ones, Brother-Captain," the Apothecary answered with nothing but honesty. "The language of the people here remains unknown, but they certainly understand our gestures, though it seems from the battle in the land of _Soo-daan_ , west of this _Eee-thee-oh-pee-ah_ , that they have yet to be united, whilst the lack of any orbital forces makes me believe that they do not yet know of the Imperium."

"Then that would make this world a lost colony?" the Ancient paused. "It would explain many things.

"And provide us with an opportunity to make the most of our failure," the Winter Blade seemed to smile. "This world possesses nuclear energy and sufficient industrial power to craft weapons for the Imperial Guard. It would make a fine addition to whatever sector it might call home."

"In any case, Brother-Ancient, I will require your assistance in the next task, for it is perhaps the most important of them all," the Captain said at last. "Whilst sending a message to the Imperium to warn them of the events that transpired over Terra Nova is our primary goal, I do not doubt the possibility that our brothers aboard the _Pyre Of Glory_ have not already taken note of our absence and sent such warning themselves. Whatever the case, there is no harm in two messages reaching them, but for now, we must ensure that our forces are ready for whatever might occur next.

"To do so, we will need to rally our forces, and I give that task to you. Find our brothers, wherever they might have been sent, then bring them here along with whatever supplies were brought with them."

The Standard Bearer nodded in understanding, but it was Vu'shal who spoke next. "We will need to be careful with our supplies as well, brothers. Without the ordnance stores and workshops of the _Pyre of Glory_ , we have no way to resupply ourselves or mend damaged equipment."

"So long as we avoid engaging in unnecessary combat, I cannot see ourselves running out of ammunition or rendering too many of our weapons inoperable," the captain considered. "Even still, we must consider the possibility of being isolated from reinforcement or resupply for sometime, but with the world seemingly devoid of hostile forces, it is safe for our brothers to only fire when fired upon."

"In any case, brothers, let it not be said that neither company nor chapter have come without proper preparations," the captain said softly. "In accordance with the Codex I saw fit to ensure that our ground forces were supported with Deathstorm Drop Pods and Tarantula Sentry Guns, including Hyperios Air Defence Platforms, intended to be deployed around our primary landing sites to support our forces as we made planetfall... but which appear to have been scattered, along with the rest of the assault forces."

"A formidable arsenal," Techmarine Vu'shal spoke. "If we are isolated from the Imperium, their ammunition will be our only possibility for resupply."

"Indeed, Brother-Techmarine, but as is written in our Primarch's teachings, such an arsenal may do us more harm than good," the captain reasoned. "For as long as we are uncertain about the loyalties of this world and whether or not it keeps to the Emperor and the Imperium, I will allow them to remain on their default programming and allow them to fire if they perceive a threat..."

"...but should this world be found to be one loyal to the Throneworld or as yet unaware of their origins from it, then I shall make use of my override and have them placed onto the lowest level of alert for immediate recovery," Captain Pellas said to the agreement of his brothers. "We must not allow our dedication to fighting against the enemies of the Imperium turn to careless bloodshed, lest we become as foul as the foes against which we make battle."

There was a flurry of acknowledgements around the room, the officers of the second company in complete agreement with their captain. There were few lessons more important to the sons of Vulkan than restraint, for it was easy for a member of the Adeptus Astartes to become so fixated on their objectives, firing at their enemies without regard for the things inbetween or using explosives with little care for the damage that might be inflicted, all brought about by a failure to remember the costs that such ruthlessness might have... and what was difference between one of the Emperor's own Astartes and the hordes of Orks that plagued the galaxy, if they allowed themselves to fall to such uncaring levels and in so doing purged themselves of that which made them Human?

The thought was one that the Apothecary had contemplated many times on Nocturne, where the brothers of the company returned between campaigns to prepare for the next battle, where they were not isolated from the people that they were sworn to protect by automated defenses or battlements of adamantium, but who lived amongst them, talking and working with them as any member of the Imperial Guard might whenever they completed their service and returned to the world from whence they came.

 _It allows us to remember where we come from,_ the Apothecary remembered well. _But more than anything else, it reminds us of that which we fight to protect._

"As for myself, I will strive to make contact with the forces of our cousin chapters, the Black Templars and the Crimson Fists, as well as the rest of the compliance force," the Captain finished, the hologram flickering to nothingness as the Techmarine restored the lights. "We will need to rally the forces of the compliance fleet and pool our resources if we are to truly organize ourselves and carry out our mission, such as it is. The vox set on the Nocturne's Flame was the most powerful to have made planetfall, befitting its role as a command vehicle, but I may require your aid in increasing the range, Brother-Techmarine, as well as interfacing with the communications of our allies in the Imperial Guard and Sisterhood."

"Then I shall return to you as soon as I have attempted to determine our location, Brother-Captain."

"Then you are all free to go and carry out your orders, but there is one thing I would have you all remember," the captain said, his voice softening and a smile forming on his cheeks. "We know not whether the people of this world know of the Imperium. If they do not, then let them see that today is the beginning of a new age for the people of this _Urth_ and that they should be delighted to be once more united with their lost kin and the sacred Throneworld... and that their brothers from the stars are ones that they might look towards with pride and joy, not fear and uncertainty. Treat them the way that you might treat any son of Nocturne."

There was the coming of affirmations and acknowledgements from around the room, from each officer in turn...and with that done, the captain released them to their duties. Techmarine Vu'shal returned the holographic projector and the rest of the equipment into the depths of the Land Raider's storage compartments, where the Imperial banners that had been meant to mark captured strongholds on Terra Nova had been taken to mark their perimeter here, on this strange new world his captain had called _Urth_ before he departed. The rest of them were swift to follow, with the Brother Librarian going first and pondering for a moment before heading off towards one of the smaller and more remote warehouses, further away from the noises and distractions of the workshop and where he might be able to divine the location of the unknown psyker without interruption, whilst the Brother-Ancient did the opposite and marched towards the workshops and other places that his brothers had begun to use as meeting grounds and a means to keep themselves occupied until new orders came or to do their part to help transform the area into a base of operations worthy of the forces of the Imperium of Man.

All that left the Apothecary alone, who hesitated only to put his helmet upon his head once more before making his way towards the entrance of the grounds, where his brothers stood on guard before the crowds. The people of the surrounding settlements gathered, awed and surprised and _curious_ , more curious than anything else as they spoke amongst themselves and pointed at the Salamanders who towered over them in their emerald green armor, unflinching.

 _There is a fear in the hearts of men of those things that look sinister, a fear that men are born with,_ the Apothecary thought. _It is one that we have conquered again and again with our deeds. Our crimson eyes and charcoal skin would no doubt disturb these peoples if they do not know of the Imperium._

But there was one thing that they were watching and pointed at that the Apothecary had not first noticed, one thing that he only saw when he followed their eyes... and found himself looking towards the Techmarine once more, Brother Vu'shal quickly scaling a shipping container, hurling himself onto its roof with the growl of powerful hydraulics and a throw of his servoarm, all to get an elevated vantage point for his many instruments and tools and sensors. Like all of the Astartes who were deemed to have a gift for the mysteries of technology and whom had been sent to Mars for training, his brother was equipped with many dozens of different tools and a vast wealth of knowledge with which to operate them - able to mend anything from a humble bolter to the Nocturne's Flame itself. But on the fields of battle where he took part in ways other than as a mere technician, he was more useful to the chapter in support than on the frontlines, for the Techmarine carried nothing less than a treasure trove of sensory equipment in the many limbs of his servoharness, items such as a full multi-scanner, an omnispex and even a prehensile dataspike for use against the machines of the enemy. In peace, such senses allowed him to quickly diagnose the problems with any Machine Spirit that he happened to cross and find the best way with which to ease their pain, the same way Mac'am's own diagnostor helmet allowed him to see the ailments of his brothers. But in battle, it allowed him to feed the batteries of their brothers in orbit or in the Chapter's heaviest vehicles the targeting information they needed to maximize the lethality of their fire, and it was there that he was at his greatest use: as a fire controller.

"Brother-Apothecary," came the voice of the sergeant that commanded the brothers on guard, the voice of his very own Tactical Sergeant Ko'van. "I trust your meeting with the Captain went well?"

"Indeed it did, Brother-Sergeant, and I may have need of your escort," the Apothecary said in answer before turning his attentions to the Techmarine, the container's steel and joints groaning from the weight of the man atop. "Are you sure this is necessary and wise, Brother?"

"It is, Brother-Apothecary, but the container should be able to hold my weight long enough for my work to be completed," the Techmarine said, one of his steel snakes reaching around and deftly and swiftly unbolting the hinges that fastened one of the container's doors before latching on and raising it into the air effortlessly, the crowds staring on in awe as he placed it between him and the light of the sun. "An elevated vantage point is always the best position for monitoring the stars."

"I can only assume that it would be difficult with the sun up, Brother-Techmarine," the sergeant spoke with dry wit. "Would it not be best to wait a few more hours till sunset, where the stars are more easily visible?"

"Time is of the essence, Sergeant," the Apothecary spoke, tipping his helm towards his brother. "The sooner Brother Vu'shal identifies the world we are on, the better for all the forces who were brought here with us."

"However, the Sergeant is quite right," Mac'am added, looking towards the Techmarine once more. "Would it not be wise to wait?"

"That would be so for even a brother of the Astartes, yet alone an unmodified man, yet my suit contains the necessary equipment to filter away sunlight the way your photolenses might mask the flash of a photon grenade," the Techmarine spoke with a cock of his head before nodding. "It is easy for me to see the stars as though it were night..."

"...though, perhaps not as perfectly," Vu'shal seemed to sigh, lowering the metal sheet and returning it to its place of origin with the whirr of a multitool. "The resolution is poor, here. Higher ground would be better, or less light to make it clearer... still, there are other ways."

Then one of the Techmarine's mechadendrites shifted, raising itself up to reveal its small augur and the complex array of sensors and instruments and other artificial eyes and ears of steel and circuit, used in times of battle to feed its master a wealth of information that ensured that no distance was too great to skew his aim and to give his brothers all that which they might need to create a plan of battle, as well as in more peaceful times to find the most advantageous terrain or to simply map the area in which they are in. It moved with a soft, almost silent whirr, as fluid as an eel, and the Apothecary could see even the local populace of the city were stunned by the sight of the steel limb moving on its own, rotating and turning as it extended its fragile aerials to the sky before locking itself in place, rigid.

"Observing the stars themselves is but only one way to determine one's position in the galaxy, Brother-Apothecary," Techmarine Vu'shal explained eagerly. "The ancient Terrans once used another method that the Adepts of the Mechanicus still use to find their way when lost. Listen well."

There was the click of their voxes interfacing.

Then he heard the noise.

Pulses that came with a whisper and grew into a soft thump before returning to a whisper as swiftly as they came, neither harsh nor pleasant to hear, three or four of them competing for his attentions simultaneously and each with their own unique noise, some higher pitched to grow to nearly a cry when they reached their climax and some deeper and pounding like the throb of a heart and twice as regular.

"What are those noise, brother?" the Apothecary asked as the Sergeant looked on, intrigued. "Some kind of transmission?"

"It is the song of stars, Brother-Apothecary," the Techmarine answered with a hint of wonder and awe in his voice. "Dead stars, to be more precise. White dwarfs and neutron stars that have grown to become pulsars, emitting a beam of electromagnetic radiation towards the worlds of the galaxy as they rotate. These rotations are regular, predictable, and sometimes used for timekeeping amongst the ships of the Mechanicus when other methods of determining the date fail. Pulsar chronometers they are called."

"Yet the ancient Terrans used them for celestial navigation as well," the Techmarine continued with a raised hand. "By determining the timing of their pulses, it becomes possible to determine one's exact location relative to the galactic center..." and then he sighed, a noise heard even through the synthesizing of his helmet. "Unfortunately, my equipment alone is simply not powerful enough to find as many of them as might be necessary to determine our exact location. I would need a much larger or more complex array to determine our _exact_ position, but I can get close to determine..."

Then the Techmarine paused, even the many limbs of his Servo-Harness freezing in place exactly where they were and how they had been as their master put all his attentions into the task at hand, so utterly silent and still that it was as if he had been instantly transformed to stone, all processing power devoted to understanding the information that he was being fed by his instruments.

And as suddenly as he had paused, he spoke again.

"...that we are in Segmentum Solar, exact location unknown," the Techmarine answered at last, rising to his feet as his augmetics returned to life once more. "We cannot be more than a few hundred or perhaps a thousand light years at the most from the Throneworld - though whether or not we are above or below it on the galactic plane, I cannot be certain, as I cannot locate the _Beetlejuise Nebula_ from this location. Combining this information with the positions of stars gathered later today should be enough to determine our location much more precisely."

"Well done, brother. You do credit to the Chapter."

"Thank you, brother," the Techmarine said with a respectful and grateful nod as he jumped down from the container, crowd clapping at the sight of him as the Techmarine rose to his feet once more. "I must report to Captain Pellas of my findings, for if I am correct, it should not be long before we make contact with the Imperium again."

"Then please, tell him that we are heading out into the settlement in order to conduct reconnaissance, as ordered."

The Techmarine answered with a nod before heading towards the Captain's improvised command center, just as the Apothecary headed past the perimeter and past his brothers on guard and onto the road beyond. The sergeant followed behind as his escort, the healer's knowledge too rare amongst his brothers and too valuable in its role to be so easily risked by allowing him to travel alone.

The crowds surrounding them were vast, filled with hundreds of men and women and children, all curious about their visitors from the stars, looking them over with eyes that said that they had truly never seen the brothers of the Adeptus Astartes before, kept restrained from coming too close by their own, men who must've been this world's equivalent to the officers of the Adeptus Arbites, supported by what could only have been men of its armies, both of which looked to the brothers not with awe or curiosity, but fear. Fear that the Salamanders would suddenly come against them and attack. Fear that they were hopelessly outmatched, that their weapons would do nothing in the face of such a strike.

It was the fear of death, Mac'am knew.

 _But with every moment that we do no harm against them, the fear that fills their hearts will fade,_ he knew as well. _Then they will be as curious as their fellows, and there is no shame in wondering who we are if they have never heard of the Imperium Of Man... though how a world of Segmentum Solar somehow completely evaded compliance since the Great Crusade is a greater mystery than not._

He took his mind off the matter, instead following the roads along, examining signposts here and there for any symbols that he might recognize, finding symbols such as those of a red cross that surely seemed to mark some kind of medical facility, the crossed fork and spoon of a food distribution center or communal dining area, but one which he could recognize well: that of an area prohibited by the use of the two wheeled motorcycles that were to the Attack Bikes of the Astartes what an Astartes was to a normal human, great in size and strength. All this was within but a few moments of the entrance of the grounds of the local manufactorum, and all of it was separated from him by the locals, vying for the chance to see him and his brothers and to record their presence with the flashes of their pict-capturers and other recording devices. It would be trivial for him to force his way through the crowds, perhaps even easier for him to simply raise his bolter and fire into the air to drive them away in utter terror - but that was not the way of the Salamanders, not the way of the sons of Vulkan who had clashed against the Marines Malevolent for their wanton disregard for the lives of men.

Instead, the Apothecary simply reached out with an empty hand and tapped one of the officers of the local law enforcement on the shoulder, the young man turning around in utter uncertainty. They were well dressed, uniformed in blue and black clothes well suited for the hot environment of the land, but they were only lightly armed with a baton, a simple thing, and the Astartes held doubts about the quality of their training of their experience. This man was a raw recruit.

But when Mac'am simply tapped a hand against his armored breast and pointed towards the roads past the crowd, he saw realization in the eyes that had just been full of fear, realization that he meant him no harm, realization that all he wanted was to get through, and instantly the young officer of the law shouted out to the others, who pushed back against the crowds...

...and cleared them a way to pass and proceed into the settlement.

The Apothecary bowed his head in thanks, surprise coming over the crowd at the sight, then continued on, walking with hands away from his weapons as he proceeded through the crowds and, at last, into the town of " _Hawahssah"_ , a place far greater than the village of the _Soo-daan_ that he had been in before, something worthy of the name of a city, at least for a Civilized World as this one seemed to be.

Yet it was not perfect, that was clearly so, for this was surely a city still in the process of developing - the autosenses of his Diagnostor helmet noted with a single breath drawn and filtered from the outside air that there was a hazardous quantity of lead in the air, coming from the dirty exhausts of the simple combustion engines of the even simpler cars that could be seen on the road, competing with the animal pulled carts that came from more rural areas, whilst those very same sensors also cautioned him against the water, noting that it could be dangerous for humans who lacked the enhanced immune systems and physiology of the heavily enhanced Astartes. These phenomena were indicative of poor fuel processing and of a water filtration or treatment system that had failed to keep up with the swelling population of a newly industrialized society. Then there were the buildings, whilst certainly superior to the shacks of the _Soo-daanese_ village he had seen, were certainly lesser in quality to the more permanent buildings that had been found there, both of which had been built with simple brick and mortar, but with the buildings of Hawahssah having broken or missing facades with which to protect the masonry from the elements, with some even pockmarked by bullet holes, whilst the road itself was of poor and visibly deteriorating quality.

All this was noted by him, considered by him and remembered by him, pieced together the way he might assemble a bolter after cleaning.

"I do not believe this land we are in to be the most developed on this world," the Apothecary noted to the Sergeant as the two walked along. "Compare the quality of the roads and the quality of local construction and electricity to that of the vehicles."

"Imported from another region, perhaps?" the Sergeant suggested. "Perhaps it would be best to ask Techmarine Vu'shal to inspect them for himself?"

"The Brother-Techmarine is likely to be busy for sometime," he answered, "but I would consider it likely. This world, if not part of the Imperium, could benefit a great deal from its expertise. Clean air and clean water... both could likely see the people of this land live decades longer than do they now and reduce the risks of deformity, and neither would take the Adepts of the Mechanicus long to complete. It would be but a simple modification of the existing facilities."

"Brother Vu'shal assisted the Master Of The Forge in the reconstruction of a generatorium on Armageddon during the Third War there, did he not?" the sergeant asked before quieting. "It is a pity that he is busy, for there are few things that would make the people of this land and this world desire integration into the Imperium more than a demonstration of what it might be able to offer them in return."

"Tribal and Feudal worlds are difficult to develop, for one needs to start with nothing, but this one would be trivial to raise up," was the Apothecary's answer, carefully stepping to the side to allow a woman with a child in her arms to pass on the path rather than step into the hazardous traffic of the open road. "If we are indeed in Segmentum Solar, as Vu'shal believes, then it should not take too long for Imperial shipping to reach here."

Then the Apothecary noticed that his brother was no longer alongside him, and turned to see that he had stopped in front of the glass window of what could only be a store, and walked back towards him to see that the products in the windows were nothing other than small pict-screens, some colored and some not and all bulky and thick and heavy and with aerials of thin metal, barely able to receive whatever transmission was intended for them through the building.

"Something catch your attentions, Brother-Sergeant?"

"Look, Brother-Apothecary," the Sergeant said, placing a finger against the glass, pointing towards the screen on the bottom left, showing some form of informational broadcast from a distant land of towering buildings of glass and steel and wide roads and bustling streets, all now reduced to ruins and filled with the flashes of gunfire and explosions. The Apothecary leaning in close to see...

 _Astartes_.

The color was off, another casualty of the poor transmission quality, but he needed no colors to be able to recognize the heraldry of their cousins upon the pauldron of a wounded brother leaning against fallen concrete as he fired into the distance, bolt rounds streaking through the air as autogun fire bounced harmlessly off his ceramite armor.

It was the black cross.

"...those are our cousins, the Black Templars," the Apothecary said in instant realization, leaning into the glass with a growing unease in the pit of his stomach, a feeling that a grave mistake had been made somewhere. "Do they not realize that we never made it to Terra Nova?"

"Perhaps, but I believe that this may be past footage, brother," Sergeant Ko'van answered after a moment. "Perhaps this world is still early into compliance and its peoples are being educated on the triumphs of the Imperium in battle?"

"Even for an Astartes, there is glory in death if they make the enemy pay dearly for their life," was his grim answer as he did his best to examine the wounds of their cousin from the image. "It would seem this Templar was wounded in their drop, perhaps impacted by falling debris when their pod struck a building. Dislocated shoulder. Nonlethal, even without adequate care."

"And all the more motivating for it," the Sergeant noted. "What man or woman could not feel emboldened by the sight of the Adeptus Astartes raining down from the skies above into the heart of battle and holding strong even when the buildings around them crumble?"

Seeming to be exhausted of ammunition or their foes sent to rout, the Black Templar locked a wounded arm into the twisted strands of steel rebar, wrapping it around their dislocated limb, fastening it into place as their pressed a boot against the concrete... and hurled themselves forward, forcing the wandering joint back into its proper place and righting the pauldron's position once more, the Black Templar flexing their arm before reloading their bolter and charging into the distance as the footage snapped to an interview somewhere else.

"...though there are better ways to tend to one's wounds than that," the Apothecary mused as the Salamanders continued down the street. "Still, I suppose that it can suffice if there are no other means available... though I hope such footage does not come from this world."

"I would not worry, brother, for whilst our cousins in the Black Templars are well known for their tenacity in battle against the enemies of the Emperor and His Imperium, I would not expect them to be reckless enough to not realize that this world is not Terra Nova," the Sergeant answered after a moment's thought. "They would only need to look to the sky to realize that they never arrived there."

 _The Brother-Sergeant is correct,_ a part of him reasoned. _Even the Black Templars would not be so aggressive as to fire without ensuring that they are not making battle against the Emperor's own._

"In any case, it provides some information that our captain would find useful," Mac'am explained to the Sergeant. "Our task is to gather information, and anything that shows whether or not this world already knows of the Imperium is amongst the most valuable that we might find. If that truly was pict-captures from a world that the Black Templars have already subdued, brought here to be witnessed by the people of a world still being brought into compliance, then all the better."

"Then should we not return to inform him of our findings?"

"Not yet. Though valuable, that is still but a single scrap. We will need more than just one if we are to learn about the world on which we have found ourselves."

"Then we..."

There was a soft thump. Then the instruments in the Apothecary's helmet informed him of an impact upon his brother, harmless but there, and the two warriors turned to see two groups of surprised children in a small park looking towards them with fear, a worn out ball of black pentagons and white hexagons rolling away from the Sergeant and towards a pair of wooden sticks that had been staked into the ground by the children, to serve as goalposts for whatever game they were playing. A century of battlehoned experience caused the sergeant's hand to snap towards his waist, where his weapon remained, only for him to stop himself at the realization that there were no threats around, only innocents.

"Children," Brother Kov'an sighed, hands relaxing and heart rate slowing. "Though they should know better than to hit anyone with a ball, yet alone an Astartes."

"I do believe they did not mean it, brother-sergeant," Mac'am said, extending an arm towards the goal. "I doubt they thought anyone would be passing through this location to be hit at all..."

"...and even still, a ball of leather and rubber is no threat to any Salamander," the Apothecary finished as one of the children came over and picked up the ball, offering it to the sergeant, a smile unseen behind his helmet. "It would seem they wish you to join them."

"Are you sure this is wise, Apothecary?" the sergeant asked with skepticism. "The ball may explode."

"I see no reason why you should not, Brother-Sergeant," the Apothecary said as he turned towards his brother. "Your actions now could be what inspire any of these children to one day perform heroic deeds in the Emperor's service, just as they might to any of our kin on Nocturne. Surely that is worth a moment of your time?"

"Very well, brother, but I shan't hold back," the Sergeant answered at last, taking the ball from the youth and gripping it gently, the child's hand seeming all the smaller in comparison to the Sergeant's own, examining it for a moment, getting a feel for the weight, for the strength.

Then he dropped it to the ground, the child moving out of the way as the Astartes took a step backwards...

...and did a short running kick.

The little ball of black and white moved so fast that it would have seemed to have become a stream of objects to any man who lacked the refined senses of a Space Marine, so fast as to seem to be more than one ball in motion, so fast as to become a complete blur, so fast that even the superhuman senses of the Apothecary could barely keep track of it in the second before it reached its destination, passing the young children and their wooden stakes in the blink of an eye. They could not even register it leaving the ground to strike the metal chain-link fence behind them with a _bang_ as the leather ball was first burst on impact, and then shredded completely as it was forced through the openings of the fence.

Then the children looked on in stunned awe that turned to laughter and amazement as they rushed over to see its shredded remains, the leather and rubber ball having been utterly destroyed, smoking and hot to the touch. One pulled it back through the fence, the ball simply falling apart as the last few threads were torn by the force, half the ball simply flopping to the ground, useless.

The brothers of the Salamander chapter marched on, continuing their investigation of the city that would become their home for as long as it took for their allies and for the Imperium to find them again, passing the awed and often fearful people as they did, but the further they went, the longer there were no incidents of note, the more the people seemed to relax at their presence as they grew more accustomed and less afraid and more comfortable, more at ease with their presence.

Yet the Apothecary strayed from his mission little. He used the functions of his autosenses to record the sights and sounds of the city, capturing images of buildings and signs and vehicles and people and items and foods and everything else that he might see, all immortalized forever with but a thought that passed from him to the machine. The sergeant too did the same, the pair making note of everything that they found as they walked, whether they be vendors providing street foods - some kind of semi-solid confectionary served in a wafer cone, the Apothecary noted, recording for later review that it was most likely a form of refrigerated electrolytic rehydrating fluid for survival on hot days, which could provide valuable insight into the daytime temperatures here and what precautions the Salamanders might need to take to maintain strength - to the appearance of a spheroid map in the window of what could only be a local school of some kind, revealing the shape of the continents of the world on which they found and even the borders of its nation states. Little labels on the map betrayed all manner of foreign-sounding names that must have meant something to these people, from simple ones like "SUDAN" and "CHAD", to longer and more complicated ones like "UNITED STATES OF AMERICA" and "UNION OF SOVIET SOCIALIST REPUBLICS".

All these things were noted by him, captured by him, and recorded for later review when the time came to report to his captain.

But there was something else that he began to notice. Something that had been utterly unseen before, but present, stalking, like the shadow of a man.

The people he saw were getting thinner. Their clothes were more decrepit, hanging loose from their bodies. The road they were on was declining in quality, and the buildings did so with it. Insects flowed more freely in the air, creatures with wings and dagger mouths able to suck the blood from men and women and children and give them the curse of malaria in return. For a time, the Apothecary wondered whether they had simply wandered into a poorer part of the settlement, for it was the usual for there to be some part of a developing world where people lived in squalor. He even recorded it as such.

It was when they started to find people, children, collapsed by the roadsides, barely breathing, that he knew there was something far more sinister than simple poverty at work here. He advanced towards one, a young boy limping along as a large black bird with a red head stood nearby, waiting, and he needed not the precision instruments and information to know what was wrong with them.

They were starving.

"Famine," Apothecary Mac'am said to his sergeant, catching the child before he might collapse, raising him from the ground in giant arms that made his shrunken form appear all the tinier. "This one must not have eaten for weeks."

"This... was unexpected," the Sergeant said, stepping over to see for himself. "Aid should have come from other worlds by now."

Though the Imperium numbered worlds and people beyond counting, with many being overpopulated hiveworlds where the people survived on meager rations a day, and others being feral worlds where one's meal was what they managed to hunt or gather, true famine was a rarity. Every sector maintained strategic reserves of grain and grox meat for defensive reasons, to allow them to persist in resistance against the enemies of man even if they were cut off from the worlds that supplied them, preventing key worlds from being starved into submission, and instead allowing them to withstand years of siege, long enough for reinforcements to arrive and the blockade to be broken. It was well understood that there were few crueler ways to perish than through starvation, the threat of which could be leveraged as a gateway for pushing some into the service of darker powers, if out of nothing more than pure desperation. As such, sector-level reserves were freely allowed for use by the governors of worlds that needed them in dire emergencies, and to ensure that crop failures and drought no longer dominated the lives of men as they once had in the days before the rise of the Great Crusade. Yet a famine such as this one should have been enough to see such reserves activated to allow the people to survive until a fresh harvest could be obtained.

He thought back to the spheroid map in the window of the school, the little names and boundary lines drawn upon it. If this world was still divided, how could it be part of the Imperium? Planetary unification was always something conducted as one of a world's first steps into compliance with Imperial order, and such a thing meant that there was a simple truth.

No aid was forthcoming. This was something that this world and its peoples would have to deal with on its own. How many might die? How many might be permanently crippled from the damage to their bodies from this one famine? How many more might be ruined, forced to sell the last of their possessions to pay for a single day's meal? Dozens? Hundreds? Thousands? Millions?

The Emperor and Vulkan both would say that even one was too many.

"This is unacceptable," Mac'am stated flatly, rising to his feet once more. "I cannot allow this to continue. With me, Sergeant. There is work to be done."

There was no hesitation from the Tactical Sergeant as the Apothecary proceeded in the direction that the child had been walking, examining them as he moved. There were many different kinds of starvation and many different forms of famine, all of them different and all of them with their own path to treatment and recovery, but this one was not just the case of a single famine, but of many: he did not need to take a sample of their blood to know that they were lacking protein, no, the thinning hair and swollen ankles and belly of a body forced to devour itself in order to survive told him that, just as he did not need his autosenses to tell him that they were lacking the energy to even keep themselves warm anymore, no, the cold of their limbs was enough to tell him that. This was a complex issue, something that he could not treat with the equipment that he had on him, for what medications or stimulants were there to treat a lack of food?

Yet he did not need to travel far to see that an effort had been made. A refugee camp had been established in what had once been a marketplace, filled with crates of what he imagined and hoped to be aid from the other nationstates of this world, a demonstration of the same human decency that their Primarch knew to be amongst the most precious of things that the Imperium might defend, a demonstration of why they fought against the darkness that threatened to consume the galaxy and humanity whole. Yet even this lone fortress of hope amongst the hopelessness was faltering, for it almost seemed abandoned. Some crates had been ransacked by the needy and the desperate, and by common thieves who desired to make their fortunes off of the suffering of others, taking with them precious medical supplies and food, with beds that had been set up for those who could simply no longer walk being stripped bare or broken in the struggles that had raged, tents of white and bearing a red cross broken or torn, and generators ceased and silent, all before a series of great containers on stilts, their doors locked tight. Amongst it, some few still stirred, a few exhausted souls working desperately to save the ones who were there with limited supplies, their guards and most of their numbers seeming to have been driven off or fled for whatever reason and leaving them to do the work of a dozen fold their number... and they looked to the Apothecary and his brother with nothing less than utter terror, freezing in place at the sight of them, as though the two might gun them down in an instant.

But neither Mac'am nor Ko'van did such a thing.

Instead, the Apothecary stepped towards the nearest one, a young woman who was surely from a distant land and dressed in clothes that bore the same red cross as the tents, who looked to him incredulously and afraid for a moment.

Then he passed the child into her arms.

In that silence, a million words went unsaid.

But she could understand. She knew his intentions.

She knew he was here to help.

A curse drew his attention, one of the red cross bearing workers being yelled at by a furious young man, their cheeks streaked with tears, trying to take the last bag of grain...

...only to freeze in horror as the Sergeant's hand fell on their shoulder, the man turning in fright to see the Salamander shake his head slowly, the crimson eyes of his helm seeming to burn with repressed fury.

There was no more trouble after that, no more anger on the grounds, freeing the wearers of the red cross to do their work without fear, yet the Apothecary's attentions turned towards one of the containers, where a worker desperately struggled with the door. A quick examination told him that the container was locked and they had no key with which to open it - perhaps it had been stolen, or taken away by one of the fleeing guards, or simply lost altogether in the chaos. Beckoning the worker to stand aside, the Apothecary reached past him, gripping the small mechanism in hand... and with a tug, snapped it free, pulling the door open to awed eyes to reach in and reveal a cornucopia of hundreds of dozens of bags of grain and pallets packed to the brim with glass jars and metal tins and paper packets of crackers and everything else that might be needed to face the challenge before him.

Everything but one thing, Mac'am noted as a queue began to form, the hungry and the desperate slowly making their way to the grounds, limping along for the chance to be seen by a healer or to fill their bellies, the machine senses of his diagnostor adjusting for the task at hand and revealing those in the greatest need of aid and those who might be able to be tended to a little while later with no added risk of harm.

Hands. There were simply not enough people here to meet the scale of the challenge ahead of them.

But he knew where there was.

"I will require you to call for the presence of our brothers, Sergeant," the Apothecary commanded without hesitation. "These people have need of our aid and by the Emperor and the Primarch, they shall have it."

* * *

 _ **A brief note** : one reason the Salamanders were unable to figure out where they were was due to "stellar drift" and how the position of the stars in the sky gradually shift over thousands of years. Hence, why the Big Dipper would look vastly different in the 42nd Millennium (from where the Salamanders and other Imperium forces came) from what it would look like today, or in 1984. Furthermore, Betelgeuse (known as "Beetlejuise" to the Imperium after the name has been corrupted by thousands of years of linguistic change) went supernova and became a nebula sometime between the present and the far future._

 _Once again, special thanks to **CaekDaemon**._


	27. Metal Health

_**Writer's Notes:** Thanks to the readers for their positive responses to the previous chapter and to this story's return. I will be sure to forward these sentiments to the writer. This next (quasi) chapter was authored by three people: myself, **CaekDaemon** , and **Shiva** , each contributing different sections.  
_

* * *

 **Chapter XXVII:**

 **METAL HEALTH**

 ** _Stalker II_ (1985)**  
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.

 **Director** : Nikita Mikhalkov.  
 **Producer(s)** : Arkadi & Boris Strugatsky.  
 **Starring** : Alexander Kaidanovsky, Natasha Abramova, Alisa Freindlich, Nikolai Grinko, Aleksandr Abdulov, Svetlana Chenkova.  
 **Production Company** : Mosfilm.  
 **Budget** : 1,000,000 SUR (Soviet Rubles).  
 **Runtime** : 121min.  
 **Country** : Soviet Union.  
 **Language** : Russian.

 _ **Stalker: Nightfall**_ (Russian: **_Сталкер: Cумерки_** , internationally known as **_Stalker II_** ) is a 1985 Soviet action-adventure film directed by Nikita Mikhalkov with a screenplay written by the Strugatsky Brothers. It is a sequel to the science fiction art film _Stalker_ (1979), directed by Andrei Tarkovsky and based on the Strugatsky Brothers' novel _Roadside Picnic_ (1972). The film continues the story from where the original left off, but shifts the narrative from a slow-paced and melancholic drama into more of a straight-up action thriller. _Stalker II_ would go on to become a major milestone in the emergence of the "Soviet Action Cinema" or "Redflix" genre, and has also achieved cult following in the West.

The outbreak of World War III in October 1984 had a profound impact across the USSR, leaving large parts of the country devastated and millions of people killed, wounded, or displaced. The Soviet film industry in particular was hard hit, as most major productions were concentrated in the Moscow-Leningrad Corridor, and the two major battles raging in those cities resulted in the destruction of vital production facilities and the death and/or severe incapacitation of key personnel and notable celebrities. Nonetheless, the Politburo, in the interests of promoting national unity in the wake of this disaster, directed the Ministry Of Culture to begin producing movies, theatrical productions, and musical compositions that would serve as propaganda pieces for "the Second Great Patriotic War" (the first one being against Nazi Germany).

Although Tarkovsky was the director of the original _Stalker_ (1979) and arguably the USSR's most capable, his talents were unavailable due to his exile from the Union, following clashes and creative differences with Soviet authorities over the troubled production of _Nostalghia_ (1983). Instead, (locally) acclaimed actor and director Nikita Mikhalkov was brought in to direct a script to be produced by the Strugatsky Brothers. Working under severe pressure from state authorities, the Strugatskys decided it would be more expedient to write a sequel to an existing film, rather than pen an entirely new film from scratch (particularly as they had allegedly been considering a follow-up story to _Roadside Picnic_ for several years); it is rumored that the entire script was completed in under 2 weeks.

In the original film, the "Stalker" (whose name remains unrevealed in the film, but is referred to in the production notes by the same name he goes by in the novel: Redrick "Red" Schuhart) endures a long and perilous journey through "the Zone" (one of 6 quarantined areas left on Earth in the wake of "the Visitation" by an enigmatic alien race known as "the Visitors") in search of "the Room", a mysterious place with possible metaphysical properties, in the hopes of curing his daughter of her disabilities. The film ended Stalker's daughter displaying psychic abilities following her father's return from "the Zone".

The sequel picks up roughly 10 years after the original is set, with Stalker's daughter (now a teenager) beginning to fully manifest her psychic abilities such as telepathy and telekinesis, but also suffering intense nightmares and visions. Stalker is forced to return to the Zone to seek out answers, bringing his daughter along. In the 10 years since the original took place, however, the Zone has become a far more openly hostile and dangerous location, infested with all manner of monsters, mutants, murderous lunatics driven insane by the Zone's influence, and eldritch locations where the fabric of reality is warped.

As later revealed in the film, "the Visitors" were in fact trying to warn and help Humanity fight back against another, more malevolent alien force, known only as "the Others". The "Zones" were created by the Visitors as places where select few Humans would be granted extraordinary gifts to help guide and protect the rest of Humanity, but only if they could first prove themselves sufficiently worthy by overcoming various challenges - both physical and emotional. The imminent arrival of the Others is revealed to be the cause of Stalker's daughter's nightmares, as well as subtly causing the Zone to become darker and more violent.

The various monsters and other dangers inhabiting the Zone were created through a mix of puppetry, actors in costume, shadows, stop-motion animation, and other techniques. Indeed, time and resources were so short that the crew would often rely on visual illusions to try to circumvent these limitations; Western critics and film buffs believe that Mikhalkov may have "borrowed" a page or two out of the works of Steven Spielberg (citing in particular _Jaws_ (1975) and _Poltergeist_ (1982)), as well as Stanley Kubrick and even Roger Corman. All told, in a 2-hour film, the actual monsters only appear on screen for less than 8 minutes.

Furthermore, to save time and budget, the film was partly shot on location in actual areas that were devastated by the fighting in Moscow and Leningrad and subsequently abandoned, such as the Metrovagonmash plant located just outside the city limits. However, this exposed the production crew to hazards such as unexploded ordnance, which killed at least 2 crew-members during the course of filming, and wounded many others. Although the crew would take additional security measures in the wake of these incidents, filming in these locations remained a dangerous and stressful affair, and some critics argue that the looks of fear visible in the actors' faces in the finished product are authentic.

The film is notable for featuring an electronic soundtrack composed by Soviet / Latvian disco group Zodiac. Mikhalkov had originally wanted a full orchestral score to accompany the film, but due to the conditions created by the war, obtaining access to a complete philharmonic orchestra was difficult.

Its escapist and fantasy elements combined with and its themes of a heroic fighter exemplifying the best of Human (read: _Soviet_ ) ideals triumphing over malevolent and nightmarish forces helped make _Stalker II_ a hit, and the second highest grossing film in the USSR of 1985 (second only to Elem Klimov's World War II drama _Come & See_). Indeed, film historians would retrospectively come to regard the film as one of the cornerstones that gave rise to the "Soviet Action Cinema" genre from the mid-80's onwards. Soviet film-makers, inspired both by the prevalence of action movies released by their capitalist counterparts during this period and by the rising tide of Soviet patriotism at home, would produce dozens of similar works (although the quality of acting, writing, and visual effects would vary enormously). Some of these films would even make their way into Western markets (earning the nickname "Redflix" among American movie-goers).

The spin-off _Stalker_ video games were among the first franchises to be produced by the Soviet video game industry, then in its infancy. Due to the difficulty of obtaining Western-made games, these games would be a staple among Soviet gamers for years to come, although they received little exposure in the West until many years later, due to protracted and heated litigation between Soviet state-run Elektronika and the American company Sierra Entertainment (because in order to speed up development, the first _Stalker_ game simply ported and re-purposed the engine for Sierra's _King's Quest_ (1984)).

The film was followed up by the sequels _Stalker III: Earth Watch_ (1987), _Stalker IV: Elusive Avengers_ (1989), and _Stalker V: Final Light_ (1993), as well as a prequel _Before Stalker: The Visitation_ (1998). Unfortunately, these sequels are widely regarded by viewers to have seen a gradual decline in quality (with some even considering the difficulties and limitations faced by the production crew in '85 as what made _II_ a stronger film than any of the other sequels). More recently, a reboot / remake has been announced and is due to be released in 2017 and directed by Timur Bekmambetov.

 **See also:**

-Soviet action cinema (genre)

-Nikita Mikhalkov (director)

-Andrei Tarkovsky (director)

 _-Roadside Picnic_ (1972 novel)

-Effects of World War III on Soviet pop culture

-Nerd culture in the Soviet Union

-Film censorship in the Soviet Union

-"Second Detente" (1984 onwards)

* * *

 **Rage Against The Machine Spirit**  
From Musipedia, the free music encyclopedia.

 **Rage Against The Machine Spirit** is a predominantly American synthmetal band formed in 1989, well known worldwide for being the inventor of the "mechpunk" music genre that arose from their combined use of synthesizers and other electronic instruments alongside electric guitars, amplifiers and then new autotune pitch modification technology to create distorted voices mimicking those of the members of the Imperial Of Man organization known as the "Adeptus Mechanicus".

Rage Against The Machine Spirit is composed of anywhere between five and ten members (the number has been observed to change at several of their live performances), all of whom keep their identities anonymous through the use of voice-changers and face-concealing masks (modeled on their namesakes); fan speculation as to the exact identities of these members varies widely.

Rising out of the ashes of a world still recovering from World War III, and the triple revelations that Humanity was not alone in the universe, that time travel was possible and that supernatural abilities such as telepathy were in fact real, as well as the terrible understanding that there were countless forces intent on the destruction of humankind, Rage Against The Machine Spirit were catapulted to the top of the charts by the desire of many to get back to a more peaceful and less chaotic time similar to the boom years of the early 80's.

Inventing an entirely new genre inspired by the sounds of the red cloaked priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus (with some tracks outright incorporating recordings of their voices or the sound of their mechadendrites and other equipment), the fresh genre Rage Against The Machine Spirit created would capture the imagination of a generation that had only been able to grow up listening to prerecorded media owing due to military appropriation of radio and television transmissions for use as emergency broadcast systems. The band's first track, the eponymous _Rage Against The Machine Spirit_ \- based off of the struggle of an Adeptus Tech Priest to reclaim control of a Baneblade's machine spirit after it had gone berserk on the battlefield following the death of its trusted commander - sold a million records in 1990 alone and earned them a record contract.

 _ **Picture** : cover art of the band's debut album, _March Of The Machine _, received worldwide to critical acclaim._

Well known for sudden drops and surges in pitch and volume and for the dual use of synthesizers and guitars, Rage Against The Machine Spirit are also well known for being highly pro-Imperial in nature, something that sets them apart from other synth-metal bands such as Federation and DARK AGE (the former of which reveres the lost Federation that preceded the Imperium and the latter of which is well known for its grim lyrics), as is demonstrated in the lyrics of such songs as _Steel Legions_ , _Fire In The Sky_ , _Mechadendrite_ , and their best-selling single _Engine Of War_ , recounting the deeds of an Imperator-class Titan as it cut a bloody swathe into Ork forces that lacked any equally heavy equipment of their own.

Their blatantly pro-Imperial views have earned the band considerable ire and controversy in their own homeland, regarded by many as "unpatriotic" at best, and with live performances frequently receiving death threats. The FBI is known to keep a close watch on Rage Against The Machine Spirit and many of their fans, considering them to be a "loosely organized hybrid gang". Rage Against The Machine Spirit's works are frequently used as fuel by the Parental Music Review Center (PMRC), the Moral Majority Movement For Morality In Music (5M), and other notable groups crusading to get all heavy metal music banned (although these efforts are just as strongly opposed by musical groups such as Rage Against The Machine Spirit, Twisted Sister, Motley Crue, and many others on First Amendment grounds).

In spite of all of these controversies (or perhaps even because of the wide media attention generated by them), Rage Against The Machine Spirit continues to enjoy immense popularity, particularly among the underground music scene. Furthermore, the overwhelmingly positive view of the Imperium Of Man and the Adeptus Mechanicus by the band has, of course, led to them being somewhat warmly received by the Imperium's representatives. One member of the Adeptus Mechanicus, a Techmarine from the Crimson Fists, once stated in an interview that: "...they are like the remembrancers of the Great Crusade, turning the heroic deeds of the soldiers of the Imperium into works of song that will allow generations as yet unborn to remember the sacrifice of those who fell in the Emperor's service."

 **See also:**

-Synthmetal (genre)

-Mechpunk (genre)

-Federation (band)

-DARK AGE (band)

-Category: bands of the 1990's

-Category: Synthmetal bands

* * *

 **National Emergency Health Insurance Act**  
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.

The **National Emergency Health Insurance Act** of 1985 (NEHI, or more commonly known as " **Reagancare** "), was a law passed by the U.S. Senate and signed into law by President Ronald Reagan on March 23, 1985. The law was originally intended as a temporary emergency measure to provide government-backed health insurance in response to the outbreak of World War III in October 1984 and the subsequent collapse of the American health insurance industry; however, it has since gone on to become a more permanent fixture under the follow-up National Health Insurance Act (NHI) of 1988.

The opening weeks of World War III saw millions of Americans killed or wounded in the afflicted war zones; furthermore, vital infrastructure in these areas, such as hospitals and urgent care clinics, were destroyed or damaged, and many other emergency services were severely disrupted due to the fighting and widespread destruction. Any medical services that weren't disrupted were instead overwhelmed by the unprecedented influx of the wounded and dying, compounded by a severe shortage in medical supplies, fuel, and many other necessities.

Many of the remaining hospitals in the affected states faced severe overcrowding, and began engaging in widespread "patient dumping", either onto the streets or onto other hospitals, to save room and costs, a practice that was met with public outcry. Still, many more hospitals, unable to cope with skyrocketing costs, were forced to close their doors and declare bankruptcy, often leaving their patients out on the streets. This period would see a notorious spike in incidences of patient deaths and second-hand infections, as well as a surge of subsequent litigation and charges of medical malpractice against many of these institutions by disgruntled patients.

As it turns out, this phenomenon would have a severe ripple effect across the rest of the nation, as various health insurance providers found themselves strapped for cash having to pay the deluge of claims now facing them. Furthermore, the outbreak of war coincided with (and was the primary cause of) the Great Crash Of '84, the single largest stock market crash in history, with the Dow Jones Industrial Average plunging almost 42%. Several of the nations' largest healthcare insurers, facing a double-pronged assault from both the surge in medical claims filed by their customers as well as the overnight loss of billions of dollars in equity, simply took the easy way out and declared bankruptcy.

As a direct result, millions of Americans across the country lost their health insurance coverage, even in those states not directly impacted by the invasion. There was a public outcry when patients _en masse_ began receiving the bill for their care coupled with a notice that their insurer would no longer be footing it. In the coming years, federal and state courts would see a wave of lawsuits filed against the various insurers by disgruntled clients. News reports that several executives in the insurance industry had voted to give themselves generous bonuses paid out of their organization's coffers before declaring bankruptcy only furthered to stoke widespread resentment and discontent.

The crisis continued throughout the rest of 1984 and well into 1985; severe shortages of fuel, food, medicine, and warm clothing, as well as frequent power-cuts, contributed to higher-than-average incidences of influenza and other diseases during the winter of 1984-85. To give just one example, fuel shortages meant that private citizens could not heat up their homes, and it also led to decreased car usage and increased usage of public transportation (which in turn led to frequent overcrowding of buses and trains, and thus, easier transfer of viruses from one individual to another).

In response to the ongoing healthcare crisis, President Reagan declared a public health emergency and directed the Dept. Of Health & Human Services (HHS) to begin providing funding to healthcare providers in California, Florida, Texas, South Dakota, Virginia, Delaware, Maryland, and the District Of Columbia in order to keep them afloat for the duration of the crisis. As you can see, however, this executive action only pertained to those states that were directly hit in the invasion and where fighting had occurred, and did not cover the wider nation as a whole.

As the months passed, the fighting dragged on, more wounded and dying began to flood into the nation's overcrowded hospitals, and more patients began losing their health insurance, the wider extent of the crisis became clearer. It was Senator Edward "Ted" Kennedy (D-MA) who took to the Senate floor in the final weeks of 1984 and introduced S. J. Res. 15 or "an act to provide comprehensive healthcare coverage for all U.S. residents during periods of national crisis". The plan was simple enough: the Federal govt. would utilize the existing framework and system already in place for Medicare (which was at the time only covered senior citizens), and expand it to cover all U.S. citizens, regardless of age (hence, why we today use the term "Medicare" to describe the public healthcare plan that covers everyone, but prior to 1985, it was used solely to describe the program for the elderly).

The passage of NEHI was surprisingly swift - commentators attribute this to two primary factors; first, to the urgency in Washington created by the war. Second, thanks to the collapse of the health insurance industry, many of the corporate entities who were otherwise expected to oppose NEHI were unable to finance, organize, and coordinate their lobbying efforts in Congress as effectively as before. NEHI passed both the Democratic-controlled House and the Republican-controlled Senate (as several Senate Republicans represented constituencies hard hit by the healthcare crisis); the major roadblock to NEHI was expected to be the President.

President Reagan had been a lifelong opponent of any form of government-provided healthcare - he had even begun his political career when he made a speech on behalf of the American Medical Assoc. in 1961 describing the then-recent passage of Medicare (which at time only covered the elderly) as "[waking up] to find that we have socialism". As such, Reagan was reluctant to sign off on the bill. He only relented after lengthy consultations with his advisors, and also because Senator Kennedy threatened to use the ongoing healthcare crisis as a major campaign issue in the run-up to the 1986 mid-term elections. (It is also believed that passing NEHI was part of a "tit for tat" trade between Reagan and the Democrats, with the latter agreeing to sign off on many of Reagan's other wartime policies).

Even then, it took additional negotiations and the promises that NEHI would only be a temporary measure, and that it would only cover U.S. citizens, to eventually convince Reagan not to exercise his presidential veto power on the bill. On March 23, 1985, NEHI was passed into law, and the federal government began the long, expensive, and (sometimes literally) painful task of reforming the nation's broken healthcare system. (NEHI had been sold as a simple expansion of existing Medicare facilities for the entire citizen population, but of course the truth of the matter was that in practice, actual implementation was far more complex and difficult than foreseen, especially in light of the countless other matters the govt. was dealing with at the time).

As stated above, NEHI was originally intended to be rolled back and the industry re-privatized once the crisis was over. However, this did not occur for several reasons. Firstly, even after _direct_ hostilities had concluded (though _indirect_ hostilities would continue for many years to come), recovery from the war proved to be a long, slow, and indefinite process. Secondly, the revelation of Chaos provided substantial political pressure to come up with a way to ensure that uninsured Americans would not become potential targets for influence. Thirdly, although the Republicans would continue to control the White House through to the end of the millennium, the Democrats would retain a considerable hold on Congress. Finally, it turned out that a sizeable portion of the population who had come to rely on NEHI by 1988 belonged to key Republican voting demographics.

All of this culminated in the passage of the National Health Insurance Act (NHI) in 1988 by President Bush (who by then had succeeded Reagan due to the latter's incapacity), which took the sweeping policy changes introduced by NEHI and made them permanent.

To this day, NHI and NEHI remain a controversial subject between right-wing and left-wing commentators. Those on the right bemoan the extensive costs that the US govt. incurred, and continues to incur, in administration of healthcare coverage; they (rightfully) point out that healthcare today remains the second largest govt. expenditure after defense, with up to 12% of the nation's GDP being spent on healthcare alone. They argue that medical services in the US have remained largely "stuck in the 80's" as "big government control" has removed the profit motive to innovate and seek new and cheaper forms of treatment. Finally, they argue that NHI provides an incentive for immigrants to come to the US illegally (even though NHI only covers U.S. citizens, immigrants can still gain coverage for their children born on US soil).

Those on the left and center, however, argue that without NHI, the USA would spend even more on healthcare (up to 17%), and that the great benefit of NHI was to shift the cost of paying for health insurance from private individuals onto the federal govt. (who generally has greater power in negotiating for lower prices with healthcare providers and pharmaceutical companies, and can also benefit from economies of scale when purchasing in bulk). They argue that because healthcare is an _essential_ service (and thus highly _price inelastic_ ), therefore the traditional economics of supply and demand do not apply to healthcare in the same way that they would apply to _non-essential_ consumer products. They argue that the "big government takeover" of the health insurance and many other industries was a necessary and appropriate response to the collapse of the global economy during World War III (alongside other wartime economic policies, such as higher taxes, rationing, price controls, subsidies for import substitution industry, etc.). Proponents of NHI also further point out that private insurers still do in fact exist, primarily for non-essential, elective procedures.

Furthermore, studies had shown that since the implementation of NEHI, there has been an increase in usage of preventative care and monitoring, an increase in the early detection of preventable maladies, and thus a decrease in actual treatment. Indeed, one such benefit has been the widespread adoption and usage of medical screening for early-onset Nurgle-related infections - a sobering reminder that prevention is always less costly, in terms of both money and in human lives, than treatment.

NEHI was one of the two landmark pieces of healthcare legislation passed by the Reagan-Bush Administration, the other being the National Mental Health Security Act (NMHSA) of 1986, also commonly known as "Re-insitutionalization" (as opposed to the policy of "De-institutionalization" that had preceded it) - the latter being a response to the urgent revelation that Americans suffering from various psychiatric disorders and drug addiction were all prime targets for Chaos influence and thus needed to be more closely monitored.

The result of all of this was that, by 1988, the United States became the final Western developed nation to adopt a permanent form of universal healthcare. This irony was not lost on Reagan himself, who would joke about it up until his death (with his good ol' characteristic sense of snarky humor). The passage and implementation of NEHI and NHI are regarded by many left-wing activists and commentators today as one of their few victories in the increasingly conservative and nationalistic political environment of the 1980's.

 **See also:**

-Wartime economy

-Medicare (Canada)

-National Health Service (United Kingdom)

- _Gesetzliche Krankenversicherung_ (West Germany)

-National Health Insurance (Taiwan)

-National Health Insurance Service (South Korea)

-National Health Insurance Law (Israel)

* * *

 **Re-Institutionalization**  
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.

" **Re-institutionalization** " is the colloquial name given to the process of reintroduction of long-stay psychiatric hospitals from the mid-1980's onwards. Specifically, the term was coined by commentators as a direct contrast to the period of " _De_ -institutionalization" that had preceded it.

Following the outbreak of World War III in October 1984, as well as the public revelation of the existence of psykers and of Chaos, there was widespread concern that the population of roughly 500,000 or so homeless people living in the USA would become a grave national security liability. It is estimated that anywhere from one third to one half of all homeless in the US suffer from some form of psychiatric disorder or drug addiction (depending on how one defines these terms). These in conjunction with the other ill-effects associated with chronic vagrancy (such as stress, despair, poor nutrition, poor hygiene, and so on) were suspected to make homeless individuals at greater risk to attracting Chaos than the average person.

Although the exact science of determining which individuals are likely to become psykers is still unclear (it is now believed that the root cause is primarily genetic in nature), it is now commonly recognized that one of the preconditions for "unlocking" the individual's psychic-potential is for the body to first experience some traumatic event (the so-called "Hallorann Effect", after Dr. Richard "Dick" Hallorann who first discovered it). Furthermore, some mind-altering substances are known to "unlock" previously dormant areas of the Human brain - indeed, it is common practice to test the psychic potential of individuals by giving them lysergic acid diethylamide (LSD) and then monitoring the brain using magnetic resonance imaging (MRI) technology to measure the resulting neural activity.

Therefore, higher frequency of trauma combined with substance abuse means that homeless populations are especially at risk from psychic threats.

In recognition of this fact, Congress passed, and President Bush signed, the National Mental Health Security Act (NMHSA, often pronounced "Nimh-sa" in casual conversation) in 1986. NMHSA represented a comprehensive overhaul of the American mental healthcare system, including new regulations administering psychiatric care, new reporting requirements for doctors to report on their patients, mandates for new screening procedures designed to identify key symptoms associated with Chaos, and a new tax and appropriations structure that would (ostensibly) provide for whatever funding was needed. The most striking aspect of NMHSA, however, and the core focus of this article, was the policy mandating the establishment (or, in many cases, _re_ -establishment) of a number of long-stay psychiatric hospitals throughout the country, as well as the guidelines for the expedited process of referring individuals to these institutions.

The US had, in fact, possessed a vast network of state- and federally-owned and/or funded mental asylums around the time of World War II. However, following the end of that war, there was increased public awareness of the appalling conditions that existed in many of these places. Then, in 1963, President John F. Kennedy passed the Community Mental Health Act (CMHA), which was meant to reform mental healthcare by shifting the burden away from long-stay institutions, and towards smaller, more locally-run community health centers. The principle was that community-based care was more humane and could better attend to the unique needs of each patient.

To this end, CMHA was supposed to provide adequate long-term funds from both state and federal sources to keep these smaller community centers viable. However, in practice, this did not materialize, especially as federal funding towards social services faced severe cuts during the late 70's and early 80's. Some states even took the opportunity to save money by closing down the larger hospitals without providing any increased funding to the smaller clinics.

That changed with the introduction of NHMSA, which was passed partly on the premise that removing some hundreds of thousands of mentally ill people off the streets and instead concentrating them all in a more secure and controlled environment would be better for everyone: in theory, it would give the patients (ostensibly) better living conditions and better access to medical and psychiatric help, while also removing a huge potential target for Chaos infiltration, and also greatly increasing early detection of emerging psykers.

In practice, however, the implementation of NHMSA was far from smooth, and would arouse great controversy. Primarily, conditions in many of these institutions were hellish, earning them the nickname "concentration camps for the poor" by some commentators. One of the stated purposes of NHMSA was to provide adequate funding and supervision of these institutions to ensure compliance with the minimal standards, though in practice (and not-surprisingly) this was not always the case.

To give just one example: the Willowbrook State School on Staten Island, New York, was opened in 1947 as a state-supported home for children with intellectual disabilities. It was originally designed to have a capacity of 4,000, but by 1965, with the institute being used as a convenient "dumping ground" for unwanted children, the inmate population ballooned to over 6,000. Some of the patients were used as "Human guinea pigs" in a series of hepatitis studies conducted there in the late 50's and 60's. Hygiene was poor, and mistreatment of the patients (incl. sexual abuse) was rampant. Conditions deteriorated to such a point that Sen. Robert Kennedy (brother to the late-President and to current Massachusetts Senator) compared it unfavorably to a zoo after touring the place. The State Of New York planned to shut down Willowbrook no later than 1987, although these plans shelved with the passage of NHMSA. The school (pleasantly renamed "the Staten Island Developmental Center" or SIDC) was to be converted and expanded to become a major national referral center and leader in neuro-psionic research, with New York State receiving considerable federal grants to construct additional facilities to house another 6,000 inpatients. However, due to various delays, resource shortages, strikes, poor management, and corruption, the project fell behind schedule and ran over budget. By 1990, in addition to the 5,000 inpatients crammed into existing facilities, SIDC was holding another 4,000 patients in sub-par "temporary housing". Sewage pipes routinely overflowed, and many of these patients were exposed to harsh New York winters without adequate cover and heating. More dangerous and delirious patients were often housed together with non-violent ones, sometimes leading to violent incidents, injury, and death.

Not all mental hospitals were hellholes, and the HHS insists that most facilities do pass annual inspections. Nevertheless, conditions like those found at SIDC are not unique, and have helped provide ample fuel for opponents of Re-Institutionalization throughout the late 80's and 90's.

Another major source of criticism of Re-Institutionalization is the rise of incidences of abuse of the procedure for involuntary commitment. Normally, a court can order a patient to be committed involuntarily if a qualified agent determines that said patient exhibits symptoms of a mental disorder. However, as with all other things, even these "qualified agents" are prone to making occasional mistakes (either accidentally, or sometimes deliberately too), and when these do occur, the committed patient often has few options for recourse. Even with the introduction of more reliable testing procedures such as the Vogel-Kampf Test in the 1990's, mistaken involuntary commitments occur with some alarming regularity.

Then there is the argument that NMHSA is, at best, enforced inconsistently. For example, it has been argued that wealthier, more affluent urban areas tend to be "cleaned up" of their homeless populations first before working class areas.

On the other hand, proponents of Re-Institutionalization point to the fact that these policies have helped make American cities generally safer and cleaner, aided property values, and relieved stress on local governments and communities. They further argue that conditions in these hospitals are no worse than those found in many other countries (the subpar condition of mental asylums in the Eastern Bloc seems to be a favorite target). They also argue that even if conditions in many of these hospitals were terrible, keeping these patients there is far more humane than the alternatives - which, depending on each patient's unique situation, could mean either leaving them out on the street, leaving them with their family (and thus making them unduly burdensome on non-patients), putting them in prison together with (often violent) convicted felons, or euthanizing them altogether.

 _ **Picture:** this table shows the total psychiatric hospital population of the U.S., as a % of the total population, in 5-year intervals between 1950 and 2000. This figure peaked in the mid-50's, and then declined afterwards thanks to de-institutionalization. However, the years following the introduction of NHMSA in 1986 would see an increase in patient commitment, both in absolute and relative numbers.  
_

 **Year / U.S. Mental Inpatient Population / Total U.S. Population / %**

1950: 510k / 152M / 0.33%  
1955: 558k / 166M / 0.34%  
1960: 525k / 180M / 0.29%  
1965: 490k / 194M / 0.25%  
1970: 350k / 203M / 0.17%  
1975: 200k / 216M / 0.09%  
1980: 125k / 226M / 0.06%  
 **1985: 100k / 231M / 0.04%**  
1990: 250k / 238M / 0.11%  
1995: 350k / 250M / 0.14%  
2000: 420k / 270M / 0.16%

 **See also:**

-De-Institutionalization (policy 1963 to 1986)

-Community Mental Health Act (1963)

-War On Drugs

-The Hallorann Effect

-Psychic screening and detection

-Psychic Registration Act (1987)


	28. The Warrior

**Chapter XXVIII:**

 **THE WARRIOR**

 **Café** ** _La Pucelle Volant_** **,**  
 **Champs-Élysées, Paris,**  
 **Île-de-France, French Republic.**

"...although our homeland has thus far been spared, the same cannot be said of our neighbors. To this end, I have ordered all our Armed Forces to full wartime alert," declared the solemn face of President François Mitterrand, dominating the screen. A silence had fallen over the crowd at _La Pucelle_ , indeed, over all of the City Of Lights, as every pair of eyes and ears turned towards the television.

Mitterrand continued: "As I speak at this very moment, hunter _escadrons_ and air infantry regiments are all en route to England, ready to coordinate with our English allies for the defense of London. But these are only the tip of the spear, for more will join them in the coming hours and days. We know not the exact nature of these invaders or their purposes. But around the world, untold millions have cried out in terror and agony for help, and we shall answer. Forty years ago, all of our fathers stood side-by-side and delivered this world from the grip of fascist tyranny. Today, once more will we have the great honor to stand side-by-side with our allies, and fight to preserve _liberté, égalité, et fraternité_. Vive la France!"

"VIVE LA FRANCE!" shouted several restaurant patrons. But the rest remained silent, staring in utter disbelief at what they were watching. Still, many others had already left, gone home to be with their families and loved ones in what certainly felt like the end of days.

But right at that moment, Min Jae-Kyung wasn't paying attention to any of this going on around her. As far as she knew, she was in her own little world - just her and that miserable little telephone handset she now had pressed to her ear as if her life depended on it.

Jae-Kyung, or "Jackie" as her co-workers called her, was one of several dozen people Samsung had brought to Paris to staff their office there - she had studied French back in high school and scored top of the class, which helped her greatly in landing this job. The Korean community in France was small, and largely kept to themselves, but Jackie did not mind that at all. Indeed, it gave her all the more reason to try and break out from their little bubble as often as she could, to go out and explore all that the City Of Lights had to offer. To roam the streets and cafes at night, make new friends, go to concerts and to the movies - and she had been doing just that when the news had dropped.

She had spent the better part of the last hour rushing from place to place, looking for anywhere with a telephone she could use, but it seemed nearly everywhere was backed up. In retrospect, she should have gone straight home. Well, no time to dwell on that now, only to focus on what she needed to do.

"Please... c'mon..." begged Jackie, under her breath, "Ji-Seok... please pick up..."

Ji-Seok still lived at the little apartment they had shared in Goyang, just outside of Seoul. The two of them had been married now for thirteen years, and separated for the last three of them - divorce was something that, while a little more common these days, was still heavily frowned upon by stern traditionalists (like the rest of both her family and his were). They had tried to work things out, but in the end, there were some things between them that just could not be reconciled (and Ji-Seok's drinking certainly didn't help at all). And so when she saw a job opening to go and work abroad, she of course had jumped at the chance.

It was a little hard at first, having to get used to living in a foreign country - whether it was in the big items like the food or the language, or in little items, like all the tiny little things that French people did differently from Koreans. Getting over that first month had been the most difficult. But with time, she had grown to enjoy it living here in Paris, found it liberating even. She was in a foreign land, surrounded by unfamiliar faces, and so she found it easier to just be herself and do whatever she wanted. And she wished one day that their little Soonae would join her too.

Soonae. The only good thing to come out of her and Ji-Seok's marriage. She had pushed him for years now to let their daughter come and visit her here in Paris, something he had stubbornly held off on until she was old enough to handle flying halfway around the world by herself.

And so when the news had dropped this evening of the horrific events that were transpiring around the globe, Jackie's first thought had immediately raced to Soonae. She had seen her just last night, which meant she should have been back on the ground by now, landed safely in Seoul, but she needed to know for sure.

First she had tried to call Korean Airlines' office in Paris to see if there was any news on the whereabouts of Flight 069, only to find that they were closed at this hour. So now she turned to the only other person she could think of.

The phone on the other end continued to ring.

 _Please_ , thought Jackie, a tear streaming down her cheek. _Please, oh please Ji-Seok, pick up. Please tell me our daughter is safe_...

* * *

 **Civil Defense Outpost, Goyang,**  
 **Seoul Capital Area, Republic Of Korea.**

"C'mon, c'mon," growled Ahn Ji-Seok, clutching the receiver tightly to his face, "pick up, damn it!"

He looked around. The office was empty, though it would not be for long; its occupant, some pencil-pusher for the local military precinct, was probably out running some errand or taking stock of supplies or something. They must have left in a hurry, because the door was unlocked, which suited Ji-Seok just fine... provided, of course, that what he was about to do worked at all.

Within the first hour of the invasion, phone lines everywhere had gotten swamped with caller traffic, and the government had quickly stepped in and ordered that only priority traffic be allowed through. As such, military bases, civil defense outposts, and other emergency services were the only places still connected. So when an opportunity availed itself, Ji-Seok absconded from the rallying point where the rest of his unit were supposed to be assembling, and ran to look for the nearest available telephone. Desertion? Maybe. Not that any of that mattered to him right now. The bastards had taken his little Soonae from him; now he didn't care what became of him. The only thing left was to try to contact Jae-Kyung. To hear her voice one last time, to tell her what happened before he marched off to the frontlines, and possible death...

He glanced at his watch. It was now 5 A.M. here in Goyang, which would mean 9 P.M. over in Paris. Surely she must be home by now?

The phone on the other end continued to ring; no answer was forthcoming.

There was a pounding on the door. He looked up.

"Hey!" warned Park Su-jin, who was standing guard right outside. "Ji-Seok, hurry up in there, will ya? I can see _Byeongjang_ out there! I think he's looking for us!"

Ji-Seok ignored him. Su-jin was a good friend to try and help him sneak off and find a phone, but right now he was not being helpful. Ji-Seok ignored him. "C'mon," he muttered, "please, answer the bloody phone!"

"Shit," warned Su-jin, "too late. He's coming. I'm outta here."

There was another banging on the door, more furiously this time.

"AHN!" roared a different voice. "What the hell are you doing?"

Before Ji-Seok could do or say anything else, the door to the office burst open. Standing there, dominating the doorframe, stood Sergeant Geun, red and sullen in the face.

"Ahn, you good-for-nothing _ssang-nom_!" bellowed the sarge. "What the hell are you doing?!"

"I... I..." blubbered Ji-Seok, feeling tiny and helpless in the shadow of Geun. "Please... sir, my family..."

"Do you think you're the only one with a family?" shouted Geun. He stomped up to Ji-Seok and grabbed him by the ear and pulled. "Get your sorry ass down to the ready line, on the double, before I have you charged with desertion! And put on your helmet, soldier!" He picked up Ji-Seok's helmet from the table where he'd left it, and practically threw it at him.

The phone continued to ring, no reply forthcoming. Ji-Seok looked at it, forlornly, as Geun grabbed it and hung up. He then let himself be dragged right out of the office, down the hallway, and out into the cold early morning air.

The field outside the office had become a flurry of activity, flood-lights illuminating the area as if it were midday. At the far end, a couple dozen K511 6x6 cargo trucks were parked, hundreds of men already lining up behind them, ready to board. When Ji-Seok looked up, he could see a helicopter hovering over the area, patrolling the base and the surrounding neighborhoods.

"Well?" muttered Su-jin, who was already at the rallying point. "Anything? Please tell me it was worth it."

Ji-Seok said nothing.

When it was their turn, Sergeant Geun gave the order, and Ji-Seok, Su-jin, and the rest of their unit piled into the back of the nearest truck. It was a tight squeeze, and several men had to remain standing up.

"Alright, you know the drill!" shouted Geun, who was the last to board. "It might not be the _Pukhan Shekkis_ , apparently, but we'll treat them no differently. They are a threat, and they must be destroyed. Give 'em hell, boys! _Daehanminguk mansae_!"

"DAEHANMINGUK MANSAE!" cheered the rest of the men.

The horizon to the east was already beginning to glow with the early morning light as, one by one, the trucks rumbled out through the gates and along the road north, in single file. That was when Ji-Seok heard a rumbling in the distance, like an intense thunderstorm brewing on the horizon, even though he could see out through the back of the truck that the morning sky was mostly clear but for a few clouds.

"Hear that? That's artillery," muttered Su-jin. "Jesus Christ! That sounds like every damn gun the _Pukhan Shekkis_ have got pointed at Seoul! I wonder what they're shooting at?"

Ji-Seok said nothing; all he could think of was Soonae, his Soonae... and how he was going to make these bastards, every last one of them, pay for what they did.

* * *

 **Kijong-dong Village, Demilitarized Zone,**  
 **North Hwanghae Province, DPRK.**

Lieutenant Buk was still shaking when the mud- and blood-stained UAZ-469 command car came screeching to a stop. He had to be practically pulled out of the car and carried by his men, over to the village hall they had converted to serve as their forward command post. By the time they had sat him down inside, he could already hear the clattering away of assault rifles and machine guns outside, accompanied by the dull **_boom-boom-boom_** of the enemy guns, and the cries of any men who were struck; they were close now.

"Sir," saluted the radio operator, handing him the handset, "it's Corps command, Colonel Chin on the line."

Buk's hands were shaking so badly that he could hardly hold the handset.

"This is Colonel Chin, IV Army Corps," spoke the radio, "to whom am I speaking? Over."

"Ch-Ch- _Chungwi_ Buk, r-r-reporting," stammered Buk, "I, I am... in command. O-over."

"What is your current situation?"

Buk did not immediately answer; he was too distracted by the sounds he could now hear erupting outside.

"I repeat: what is your current situation?" pressed the Colonel. "Are your forces regrouped in Kijong-dong?"

"AAAAARRRRGGGHHH!"

Right outside, Buk heard a blood-curdling scream, followed by a small explosion, and saw blood splattering all over the windows. His eyes widened.

"Are the hostiles within the vicinity of the village?" continued the radio. " _Chungwi_ , for the love of the Fatherly Leader, I need you to stay focused. Are the hostile forces within the vicinity of the village?"

Outside, Buk heard the mechanical roar of what could only be described as a gigantic chainsaw, accompanied by even more screaming, both from men and from the clattering of metal blade on metal.

"YES!" blurted Buk. "YES! AFFIRMATIVE! WE ARE BEING OVERRUN! WE NEED REINFORCEMENTS!"

"Thank you for your service to the Fatherly Leader and to the Korean People. I salute you." And then, the radio went silent.

"Uh... hello?" asked Buk, confused. "SIR! HELLO! Is anyone there?!"

Just then, there was a whistling sound in the air. An artillery shell. The entire village hall shook and the windows rattled and shattered as a large explosion broke out, just a few blocks away.

And then, immediately after, this was followed by another whistling sound... no, a dozen more whistling sounds. There was another explosion, closer this time; the last thing Buk could feel was his eardrums being blown out, before the entire building collapsed around him.

* * *

 **Somewhere(?).**

Ahn Soonae did not know where she was. Her blurred vision was filled with all manner of bizarre colors and delirious patterns, though she could hear voices too, and little snippets here and there that she could understand. It was in Korean, not in any accent she was familiar with, though still she understood.

"...no other explanation for it. An aircraft of that size could never have performed that landing without..."

"...cranial examination shows that Subject has an..."

"...autopsy of the brain..."

"...was seated right next to Subject..."

"...are you certain? None of the passengers seated nearby seem to be displaying any..."

"...there's only one way to verify the..."

"...appears to be reacting to external stimuli..."

As her vision cleared somewhat, Soonae tried to get a grip on her surroundings. At first, it looked like she was in an ordinary hospital room. That is, ordinary except for the large framed portrait that hung on the wall near her. She shivered as she recognized the man in the portrait. She was in the North.

The memories began to come back to her, a little more clearly than before. She could recall the soldiers who had come onto the plane, how everyone had been made to stand up and go outside; she remembered sliding down that giant inflatable slide and feeling the wet sand under her feet, and then being shepherded along with the others onto a waiting helicopter and then... that was all she could remember. What happened after that?

She slowly turned her head to look around her. The room was filled with a dozen men standing around, all in white lab-coats, except for an armed soldier guarding the door; the lab-coats were all standing around, talking with each other, looking at clipboards or at little machines and blinking lights. There was the rustling of papers and the scratching of pens, beeps and blinks and other mechanical noises.

There was one other person in the room, lying prone on a bed opposite her. She tried to take a closer look at this person; it was a child, like her, except bald, their head completely shaven, now covered not with hair but with dozens of little wires taped onto their little scalp. The child... was it a boy or a girl? Soonae tried to raise her head a little to get a better look, and was surprised to see the other child doing the same. Her face looked familiar.

And then it hit her: the other child was her. She was looking at a mirror.

"Look, Subject is awake!" spoke one of the scientists. Everyone else turned to look straight at her.

"...h...help. Me," moaned Soonae. Her voice was weak, her throat parched and her lips cracked. "Please. H-h-help. Me."

"Heart rate is rising."

"We're not ready for testing yet. Sedate the Subject."

"Yes sir."

"H-h-help. Me!" cried Soonae again, feebly.

The scientist nearest to her towered above her, and pulled out a syringe. Soonae shuddered; she didn't like needles. She struggled, cried out (or tried to, but it came out as more a whimper) as the needle was stabbed right into her right arm. And then, stinging pain gave way to cold numbness, and her mind went blank once more.

* * *

 **Orang Air Force Base,**  
 **North Hamgyong Province, DPRK.**

The two guards saluted him as he strode past them, but Major Gwak had more pressing matters on his mind.

It had taken several hours and a dozen transport helicopters to ferry them back and forth, but by now most of the hostages had been settled down in Hangar 12. They'd had bedding provided, food and hot drinks, and a couple doctors too from the base infirmary. A quick roll call however confirmed that two of them had disappeared. Gwak had checked the transports again, checked with the crews, and then scoured the whole base. Not a sign. And then, for whatever reason, Hangar 18, all the way out here at the edge of the base, had gone dark. Something was afoot here, and Gwak didn't like it at all.

The first thing to greet his eyes as he pushed his way through the side-door was a large group of people standing, around - scientists and doctors, soldiers too. They were all at work, performing various tasks, hardly noticing Gwak strode in. In front of the group stood a pair, speaking to each other; one was Captain Dongbang, the other, a person Gwak had never seen before - he wore no rank insignia whatsoever, only a plain black suit and white shirt.

"It shall be done, for the Fatherly Leader!" declared Dongbang, saluting the stranger, before turning to see Gwak approaching them.

"What's going on here?" demanded Gwak, stepping forward, " _Tawei!_ Why aren't you at your post?" He turned towards the stranger. "And who are you?"

"You _dare_ question _his_ authority?!" growled Dongbang. "Do you know to whom you speak?!"

" _Tawei_ , please," said the stranger, calmly, raising his left hand. Dongbang fell silent. He looked to Gwak and extended his right hand. "Director Ryuk Song-thaek, and I am with the State Security Department."

 _The State Security Department_. Gwak nearly froze in a mix of shock, confusion, and embarrassment. He did not return the handshake, but instead immediately bowed his head and begged. "Please accept my humble apologies, _Taejwa_. I was... not aware of your presence here."

"A minor and forgivable transgression," said Ryuk, brushing it off, "I see you run a tight and disciplined operation here. Good. The Fatherly Leader would be pleased by your commitment to your station."

"Forgivable?" spat Dongbang, "honorable _Taejwa_ , this man questioned your authority! He deserves demotion!"

"That will not be necessary. For now," remarked Ryuk, "though I would like to inquire as _your_ presence here."

"Yes, Sir. And please do forgive me again for my impertinence," replied Gwak, "but I was acting under pressure from High Command. Pyongyang radioed us requesting a detailed list of all the hostages and their current situation - I believe they are in negotiations with the Southern... _traitor_ government right now as we speak. I checked over the passenger manifest again, and found that two were unaccounted for. One, an elderly man, killed during the landing - presumably a heart attack. The other, a young girl of 12 years of age. I've searched everywhere else for them."

"Ah yes, I know," spoke Ryuk. "Sadly, the girl too is dying. It turns out she is suffering from some disease we have yet to verify. It could be a new biological agent being developed by the capitalists. I have therefore placed her here, under quarantine, for further investigation."

 _Disease? What disease?_ , thought Gwak to himself. He remembered seeing several little boys and girls among the passengers, and certainly none of them that he could recall looked in any way sickly. But if it was indeed some unknown illness, then this was troubling. As commander of this base, it was his duty to get to the bottom of this. "Honorable _Taejwa_ ," he began, "may I see the patient for myself?"

"No, you may not," said Ryuk, firmly.

"May I see the other victim then? The old man?" asked Gwak. "I would like to verify the cause of death. If he was seated right next to the girl, he too might be infected."

"There will be no need for that," spoke Ryuk, "we examined the healthcare records and doctor's letters that he was carrying in his luggage. It appears he has a history of neuro-degenerative ailments. No doubt due to the intense trauma and stress he experienced during the flight, he suffered a stroke and died. Simple as that. Nothing more, nothing less. Is there anything else?"

Gwak looked at Ryuk's impassive face for a second. "No, sir. That will be all."

"Good. Now kindly leave us," demanded Ryuk, "I am sure the other guests have needs to be attended to."

Gwak saluted, turned, and left the hangar, hanging his head in shame, and with even more questions than before. What exactly was going on here? Was it true, that this little girl was harboring some deadly new capitalist disease? Or was there something else? State Sec had shown up out of nowhere and gotten themselves involved for a very good reason, which meant whatever it was that was going on, it was a most serious one indeed. Regardless of State Sec's involvement, this was still _his_ airbase, and he was still determined to get to the bottom of this, one way or another.

* * *

 **Deep beneath Cheyenne Mountain,**  
 **Near Colorado Springs, State Of Colorado.**

"Of course, I hope I need not remind you that you work for the government now," began Dr. Bremer as the elevator came to a stop, "and that everything you see and hear is subject to the strictest Non-Disclosure protocols."

Dr. Yuri Gellar reluctantly grunted his agreement. Not that he had much of a choice anyhow. Latest he had heard was that the FBI had now tracked down and, ahem, "voluntarily enlisted" the rest of his team in New York (along with all the sensitive data they had stored on disk and everything) and would be flying them out to join him here as soon as they could. Well, at least working for the government meant they'd be having three squares a day again, and perhaps all the funding they needed, instead of having to scrounge day to day. It also meant that they would be learning about just what was going on behind closed doors - even if they could never tell anyone else about it, at least it might be useful in guiding their private research in future.

"What exactly are we seeing here?" asked Gellar as they stepped out of the elevator. The door in front of them was marked "BIOLOGICAL SPECIMENS" and a biohazard symbol.

"The key to _everything_ ," replied Bremer as he flashed his keycard on the door in front of them. "Well, one of them at least." With that, he opened the door and beckoned Gellar in.

Gellar felt a shiver and his throat went dry, and it wasn't just from the fact that the room was climate-controlled to maximize preservation. "What the...?" he remarked as his eyes rested on the body laying prone on the operating table in the middle of the lab.

It was that of a man... or, if it was indeed a man, it was unlike any other man Gellar had ever seen. It was tall, over six feet, and quite well built - not muscular in the same way that a Human would be, but still exuded an air of having been quite a bit stronger in life than its lithe and lean frame would otherwise have suggested. And that was just the beginning.

It was completely hairless, though Gellar wondered if that was because any hair it might have had before had now been shaved off. What he could tell was that the proportions of its head and neck were all wrong - too elongated, far too narrow. Its ears were long and pointed at the top, like something out of some damn Tolkien novel. Its arms and legs were long and spindly, with elbows and knees at wrong angles. And as for its genitals... well, that was how Gellar could tell this specimen was a male (and thankfully, at least, these looked _somewhat_ normal, though not enough to offset the peculiarity of the rest of the creature to which it was attached). The whole being stank strongly of chemicals, though these were probably whatever preservatives the Arrowhead team were using to keep this thing looking this good even after 37 years.

 _"And now I am become Death, the Destroyer Of Worlds,"_ mused Bremer, grinning as he read the look on Gellar's face.

Gellar was stunned, but still lucid enough to recognize the reference. "The _Bhagavad Gita_ ," he remarked. "Verse 32, Chapter 11. When God, reincarnated in the form of Krishna, reveals his true form to the reluctant prince Arjuna in order to motivate him to perform his duties."

"You know your classics," observed Bremer. "You know who else used to read it?"

"Heinrich Himmler," replied Gellar, glumly.

"True. Though I was actually thinking more along the lines of Robert Oppenheimer," said Bremer. "Like our fathers did 40 years ago, we too are now standing on the edge of a new scientific frontier."

"So this is _the_ Roswell alien?"

"One of them, yes."

"Where are the _others_?" asked Gellar.

"Other secure facilities," explained Bremer, "the exact locations of which are not important right now."

Gellar frowned. He had studied the paranormal now for a while, had practically read every book he could find on the matter. He had suspected that we weren't alone in the universe, or that our universe wasn't alone among many others. And he had always suspected that these "other" beings out there, whoever they were, had indeed been coming to Earth for quite some time. Unlike how the Hollywood movies often showed them, Gellar was not of the mindset that these "others", whoever or whatever they were, were necessarily "evil" per se - after all, they had come to this world before, had interacted with early Humans long ago in the distant past (hell, perhaps even mated with them), had even helped them build Stonehenge and the Pyramids, had inspired all the great religions and mythologies of the world. But now, to be staring at one of these "others", face to face... and to see just how much like us they were, and yet so radically different at the same time... it was a chilling experience.

Gellar forced himself to take his eyes off from the body, and instead looked at photographs mounted on the walls around him. There were several old black-and-white photos, showing what must have been the crash-site - a vast expanse of desert, broken bodies and twisted pieces of wreckage strewn across blackened and burning sand dunes. Men in Air Force uniforms posed next to the bodies in some of the pictures. Another one showed an excavator scooping pieces of wreckage into the back of a dump truck. Another photo was taken inside an aircraft hangar, showing a heap of spacecraft parts being stored inside, each piece labeled with a tag or a sign taped onto it.

Gellar paused at another photo, showing scientists in smocks, gloves and masks, dissecting one of the specimens. But what really drew Gellar's attention in that picture was a man sitting in the background, in a wheelchair and wearing a plain black suit and tie instead of the protective gear like the others. He had a suspicion he knew just who that man was.

More photos, with the later ones now in color. One showed a blueprint schematic of what the spaceship might have looked like prior to the crash; a beautiful but deadly shape, like a gnarly dagger with wings. Others showed pictures of the various personal effects and items that had been recovered and meticulously catalogued - all manner of clothing and apparel, jewelry, pieces of body armor, furniture, swords, some weird-looking firearms that looked straight out of a _Flash Gordon_ serial - and all of them were certainly very beautiful too, elegantly crafted and artfully shaped, sometimes with large rubies or sapphires set into them. Yet another photo showed an unusual body that was unlike the others, what looked to be some bizarre catlike creature, like a green tiger with yellow stripes, long pointed ears, and a bushy fluffy tail.

Gellar turned back to look at the body, trying to imagine what it would have looked like alive - with hair and fully clothed, perhaps sitting in the command chair of that ship, giving orders to its crew in its alien tongue. Perhaps they wore jewelry as a status symbol? Perhaps that catlike creature was some kind of shipboard mascot, like how they used to keep cats on ships in the old days? Perhaps they came to Earth looking for something? But then, if so, why did they crash? So many questions. Too many questions.

Now that he was looking at the body a little more closely, he could see that it was covered in several places with what looked like crystalline crusts, as if diamonds or shards of glass were just embedded in their skin.

"What are those?" asked Gellar.

"Their blood tends to harden and crystallize quickly upon exposure to air," answered Bremer. "A biological defense against blood-loss."

"So how are you able to open up the body when performing a dissection?"

"A number of methods," said Bremer. "They used to use hydrochloric acid as an anti-clotting agent; acidity slows down the rate of crystallization. Generally, the stronger and more concentrated the acid, the longer it takes the blood to clot." He strode over to the far end of the room, where a carousel projector had been set up; he clicked it on, and a bright image flashed onto the white wall opposite him. He continued: "nowadays, we like to use less messy and intrusive techniques. Ultrasound, CT scanning, and magnetic resonance imaging mainly. Now, we only open up the bodies when there is an absolute need."

Gellar looked up at the images being projected onto the wall. More photos taken from various dissections performed over the years - you could tell from the changes in hairstyles and clothing of some of the scientists. And yet he noticed in several of them that same wheelchair-bound scientist, growing older but still in always the same garb.

Interspersed among these photos were various diagrams, X-rays, ultrasound images... one such slide illustrated a strand of DNA, except that it consisted of a quintuple, not double, helix, with up to twenty base chemical pairs listed. Another slide showcased a full body skeleton, which looked only vaguely like a Human's, for the bones were made out of some crystalline substance, fused in several places where there should have been joints, and apparently hollow. The next slide after that focused on just the skull alone, a crystalline skull - elongated and fused in several places, with the teeth jutting right out of the jawbone rather than separate.

Gellar shivered; it looked eerily similar to his own research into crystal skulls in Pre-Colombian Mesoamerica. He had always suspected that aliens might have visited Earth many times before in the distant past, might have explained, for example, why stepped pyramids could be found in both Central America and in Egypt, built by civilizations that hadn't even invented the wheel yet. But in spite of all the years he'd devoted to studying these phenomena, it just wasn't anything to compare to actually being there, right next to _it_ , in person. It was like being a paleontologist who had studied dinosaurs his entire life now finally getting to see one alive and up close - exciting and wondrous and terrifying too all at the same time.

"So... uh, just to make sure we're on the same page here," began Gellar, "these aren't the same species as the aliens attacking us right now. But they still employ a similar means of inter-dimensional travel via psychic chrono-spatial warping?"

"That would be correct," said Bremer, "their technology is so vastly superior and complex compared to anything we have today, that it requires another powerful psychic to be able to truly understand and comprehend any of it. We've been studying their physiology and technology for nearly forty years now and we're still only scratching the surface. But at least now that we know just what is possible, it's been giving us a useful direction to steer our research towards."

"And after all that... you still forgot the realspace containment modulator," shot Gellar.

Bremer glared. "No, we did not. I told you, it was a work in progress. We were initially planning to use the one salvaged from the spacecraft, only to find it completely unusable for a Human, so we had to start from square one designing our own and..." He paused and frowned. "What is it, Freeman?"

Gellar turned around to see one of the other Arrowhead scientists entering through the door, a baffled look on his face. "Bremer, urgent call. From Washington. I think it's... uh, you're gonna have to hear it yourself."

* * *

 **Kowloon Walled City,**  
 **British Territory Of Hong Kong.**

He did not know how long he was out, but when He finally came to, His head was throbbing, feeling like His heart had traded places with His brain, and His mind still _burned_ from His brief connection to that unspeakable future. Ugh, who knew genetic memory could be such a bad trip.

Through blurry and bloodshot eyes, He glimpsed the sky above Him, a hellish deep crimson; around Him, the high-rise buildings of the Walled City and of the rest of the Kowloon rose to meet the sky, a sea of jagged edges and spires protruding up from the cracked and desolate Earth.

Karl was dizzy; He had seen things He could not have ever imagined before. Visions from the past - of mechanical dragon gods from beyond the stars and golden knights, poisoned hellscapes and concentration camps and so forth - they were one thing. And then there were these visions from the future. The far future. _His_ future. Visions of the Dark Gods and their servants, slithering out from the blackest reaches of the universe to wreak havoc, against which all of the other horrible things He had once foretold would happen in the next century looked mild by comparison.

And even these paled next to that... _Thing_ on the Throne... oh, He could still feel _Its_ mind, Its thoughts and emotions - Its anger and pain, joy and sorrow, triumph and regret. A maelstrom of feelings suddenly dumped into Karl's head like an ocean being poured into a cup. Oddly, He noted, the only thing It did not feel was _fear_ , though He had plenty of His own to substitute in Its place. He should have gone mad from everything He had seen and heard and felt (of course He now knew and understood why He hadn't, even if He did not wish to acknowledge and accept this reason right now).

He looked up again at the apocalyptic sky. How was He so sure that He had not simply died and gone to Hell? Oh, of course. He knew very well He could not die, and certainly not for lack of trying (He recalled having tried to take His or Her own life numerous times in many a past life, only to be reborn again). No, He knew quite well He was still alive and conscious.

As His vision cleared a little more, He noticed two figures standing over him, looking down upon where He lay. At first, He thought they looked like... _mother and father_? Father was wearing his blue coveralls and hard-hat, stamped with the logo of the shipyard where he worked as a welder - that was how Karl always remembered him best. Mother wore that flowery skirt and blouse, and that necklace with the dangling amulet; cheap, yes, and a little cheesy, but something He missed dreadfully. Both of them looked just as radiant as they had been on the day they had died. A tear welled in His eye.

And then, before His eyes, mom and dad morphed into a different man and woman standing above Him - darker, dressed in primitive linen garments, hands and skin showing the wear and tear from years of toiling out in the fields. Karl had never seen this couple before but He knew who they were: they too were His parents, but His parents from another life, a different time. His _first_ parents, from that little village somewhere in Anatolia, their names and identities now forever lost to the sands of time.

The vision shifted shape again. This time, it looked like Uncle Guo and Xiuying. Old Man Guo was still shaken from how Shady Shang and his thugs had roughed him up, while Xiuying, tearful, looked the exact same as the last time He had seen her, begging for Him to stay, worried for His safety.

And then, "Xiuying" turned on the spot and shouted: "We have a survivor here!" It was loud and clear but it was clearly a man's voice, and not Xiuying's.

Karl squeezed His eyes shut again for a moment and shook His head. When He looked again, now He beheld a pair of police officers, both men, shining a flashlight at Him and staring in astonishment.

"You. Are. Hurt?" asked the nearest cop, in broken English.

Karl did not answer, but instead pulled Himself up to His feet. The second cop bent down, took hold of His arm, and helped Him up. "No injuries; he seems perfectly alright," observed the officer, speaking in Cantonese, "not even any cuts or bruises!"

"Damn. How could anyone survive... _that_?" remarked the first cop, and Karl could sense his mixed awe, confusion, apprehension, and disgust as he stared at the motionless hulk of that... _Dreadnought_ that lay right near to them. The eviscerated remains of _Honored Brother Henrik Shlakt_ still hung there, still attached to that techno-coffin with strands of wire and tubing. The stench of rot and death, from Brother Shlakt and from all the other deceased surrounding them, must have been overpowering.

Karl wearily looked around Himself. The area looked almost exactly the same as when He had passed out, still strewn with the debris of collapsed buildings and the bodies of Humans, Terran and Imperial alike. Fires were burning all over. But now where once only death had reigned supreme, signs of life were slowing filtering back in.

There were teams of policemen and firemen scurrying over the ruins and piles of rubble. There were armed soldiers in British uniforms, from the garrison stationed in Hong Kong. There were even ordinary citizens too who had joined them. They must have come now that the shooting had stopped (for the most part that is, as He could still hear some distant gunfire; these _Templars_ , the main threat, had all been wiped out down to the last man, but some of the smaller ones, the _Guardsmen_ , must have managed to retreat to other parts).

Here, a Fire Service paramedic was setting about the grim task of checking each body he came across, to see who was alive and who wasn't. There, firemen were fighting to douse the flames of a burning apartment block. Elsewhere, He could see through the Warp an elderly man being carried, piggyback across the shoulders of a strong volunteer, down from his home on the seventh floor of another building, which looked dangerously close to collapsing from whatever structural damage it had taken from the Templars. Sometimes it took the absolute _worst_ of places, surrounded by naught but gloom and doom, to bring out the _best_ in people.

As the two cops helped Him wearily take a few steps, Karl looked up, despondent, to the clouds above glowing red reflecting the city lights, and then further, to the endless and uncaring universe beyond. To have suddenly felt the anguish and plight of a trillion tortured souls had dulled His Warp senses somewhat, much as shining a bright light might cause one's pupils to contract and dull one's eyesight. But still He could feel enough to know a little more of what was going on around Him. Thousands had been slain, but many thousands more remained alive, trapped or wounded. Nothing within His abilities could restore breathe to the deceased, but there was still hope for the living - the living here and in a thousand other places around this world, now and, perhaps, across a thousand lifetimes into the future too...

 _"Shall the judge of all of the world not do what is right?"_ He quietly muttered to Himself.

"Excuse me?" asked one of the policemen, confused.

Karl recognized the line, it was a quote from the Bible; Genesis 18:25. He knew it well - after all, it was He who had written it in the first place (in a previous life, that is).

"Actually, uh, I'm alright, thank you," spoke Karl, in fluent Cantonese, to the surprise of both cops. "I think there are others who need your help more than me." He politely shrugged off their assistance, straightened up, and walked off by Himself - there was much He needed to do.

* * *

 **Deep beneath the Pentagon,**  
 **Arlington, Commonwealth Of Virginia.**

 _Starting..._

 _Starting..._

 _Running diagnostics..._

 _Neural interface display... check._

 _Control surfaces... check._

 _Power output... stable._

 _Environmental sensors... calibrated_

 _All systems... operating at 80% functionality. Standby for detailed diagnosis._

 _Identity... confirmed. Welcome back, Lady Adorcha Maeterys, Heiress To The Noble House Of Ke'airden._

 _Lady Ke'airden_... now that was a name she had not heard anyone else call her for a long time.

It had been nearly three hundred of the Mon'Keigh's years since she had fled her ancestral home on Druidia; thirty-seven since she had become trapped on this miserable little rock of a planet in the middle of nowhere, all alone, all of her crew and even Kringer taken away from her. And so right now, to be reunited with her old wargear, for the first time in a long time, it felt... _good_. It felt - not much but a little - like she had finally returned _home_.

She closed her eyes - only for what any dull-minded Mon'Keigh would perceive to be a mere microsecond, but it was enough. Enough for her to stretch her legs and get a feel for the armor that now clung to her seamlessly and weightlessly like a second skin.

Even with her eyes closed, she could still see and feel clearly the enormous object burning in her hands. _Margaithann_. The enormous Warp Sword glowed fiercely, appearing to shift between white and gold and deep crimson in both reality and in the Warp, surging with raw power and the weight of untold myriads of souls it had claimed throughout its long and dignified service. In spite of its great size and mass, it felt light as a feather in the hands of whoever was worthy enough to wield it. And it could shift its size and shape as well, able to mold itself to suit the needs of whatever circumstances were at hand (though that part required a level of effort on her part that she was just far too exhausted right now to expend).

Some ten thousand generations of House Ke'airden had wielded that great blade across countless worlds and throughout innumerable battles, going all the way back to the days of the War In Heaven against the dreaded _Yngir_ themselves and their vile _Necron'tyr_ servants. Sixty-five million years and still Margaithann shined and gleamed, sharp and deadly as the day it was first forged in the heart of a dying star. It was the only thing she took with her, other than the clothes on her back, when she was forced to flee Druidia, never to see her beloved homeworld ever again. And throughout all the years that she had spent on the run - finding and training Kringer, joining the Guardians, raiding, fighting back, hiding, and dreaming of the day she vengeance would be hers... it was all she had carried with her to remind her of the life she had left behind, the family she had turned her back on.

She turned her weary eyes, blurred with confused tears of mixed sorrow and joy, to look back at her opponent; the Assassin had landed on her feet, some several dozen feet away from her. Her grip on Margaithann's hilt tightened. Oh, how she was going to... to... to _fuck that bitch up SO royally_.

(And yes, please pardon her Mon'Keigh; one does not live among these primitives for years and not pick up a few of their mannerisms. Lowly as they are, there were at least some qualities of their essence that were endearing, infectious even...).

Adora boldly took a step forward.

 _Squelch_.

Ugh!

 _By Khaine!_ , thought Adora, as she winced from the stinging pain. It took every bit of effort for her not to break her composure, lest she betray this weakness to the deadly opponent right in front of her.

Almost at once, her helmet display flashed with a psychic warning. In a matter of micro-seconds, her suit had conducted a full body scan and had diagnosed the problem: foreign object lodged in her mesentery, right between the layers of muscle and the abdominal cavity. *Sigh*. Of course, it was the _Sharpie_. Her armor was tight around the midsection, crafted and shaped specifically to fit her frame and no one else's; and when she had donned it, it had pushed that pathetic piece of plastic even deeper inside.

That was not the only problem. A second warning alerted her to an even more insidious complication: there were still tiny traces of the poison in her blood. She had managed, thanks to that little technique Amalthea had taught her back in the Rebellion, to flush most of it out of her system. However, tiny residual traces of it remained. Easy to overlook, but if left unchecked...

 _Activate medical protocols!_ , thought Adora quickly, expecting her suit to comply. _Initiate foreign object removal and blood contaminant filtration_...

Nothing.

 _I said... activate medical protocols!_ , she repeated, this time mouthing the words as well. Again, nothing. Adora was confused for a moment, before she realized what must have been going on.

Thirty-seven years had this suit of armor been in the possession of the Mon'Keigh; thirty seven years had they been studying it, handling it, taking it apart to examine it, and then boxing it up and storing it away down here in this depository like it were some cheap trinket to add to their hoard. Somewhere along the way, the Mon'Keigh, in their infinite clumsiness, must have damaged it - not much but just enough to disable the medical capsule and a few other processes. No wonder she had been warned that her suit was operating at only 80% combat functionality.

There was no time to dwell on any of these. She turned her attention towards her assailant (all of this having transpired in the space of what would appear to any outside observer to have only been a few seconds).

"You poisoned me," she spoke, accusingly, as she took several strides forward, trying her bloody damnedest not to betray any sign of falter in her step, or self-doubt in her words - even if she knew her helmet's audio-system would automatically filter her voice for any hints of these, it was as much for the purpose of reassuring herself too.

Sure enough, she could hear her commanding voice reverberate out from her helm's mouthpiece, both in reality, and in the Warp too, and sounding more mildly annoyed than desperate. She looked to try and gauge her opponent's reaction; the Assassin's skull-like mask was, as always, unmoving and unreactive, though Adora could sense the aura of pure hatred and contempt burning in her general direction. "Bring it on, _Xenos whore_!" came the her enemy's reply, and then, she charged.

 _Get ready for this..._

Faster than the blink of an eye, her helmet sensors performed a quick scan and analysis of the figure rushing at her. Adora knew enough about the formidable assassins of the Callidus Temple, based on whatever knowledge she had pried away from the mind of that "Ordo Chronos" agent she'd encountered back in Rome last year. She knew about the Officio Assassinorum and their different schools, their methods and ideologies; and she knew of how they were routinely used to hunt down what few surviving members of her species remained in that dark future from whence they came. All this and much, much more about the Imperium had been revealed to her during that little "close encounter" almost a year ago, and yet now to be facing up against one of these dreaded harridans was no less a chilling experience.

Her eyes and sensors in particular focused on that sickly green blade that shimmered and glowed in the Assassin's hands. _C'Tan Phase Sword_ \- an ancient artifact from the dreaded _Yngir_ themselves. Adora shivered. Aeons ago, her legendary ancestors had fought seemingly endless hordes of the _Yngir_ 's followers, wielding similar weapons. Arcane armaments forged out of eldritch metals, able to phase in and out of realspace to bypass most defenses; it took no less than the able hand of Vaul himself to devise a sufficient counter. And though she gripped one such counter in her hands, her mind could not help but ponder for a moment just how many of the ancient heroes of House Ke'airden had been felled upon these accursed blades.

Her belly seemed to concur, as she felt a slight stinging from where she had been stabbed earlier. But she bit the bullet and steeled herself; her legs bent, her muscles tightened, her eyes narrowed.

In a flash, the Assassin was upon her; darkness rose, and light in turn rose to meet it, head on. Sparks cascaded out like little arcs of lightning, and a piercing wail echoed through the cavernous reaches of the Vault, as the dreaded phase metal of the C'Tan clashed against the finest artisanship of Vaul.

The Assassin pressed the attack, thrusting, stabbing, slashing, blocking, all in such rapid succession so as to appear a blur to normal eyes; she was unrelenting. And so too was Adora.

Adora was quick on her feet, her speed and reflexes greatly amplified by the living armor she had clothed herself in. She leapt to the side, and pulled Margaithann out of its lock with the Phase blade; she swung the ancient Warpsword in a great circle, and brought it around to strike the Assassin's head.

But the Assassin was quick too, able to turn on the spot and bring her own sword up in time to block Margaithann. Once more, the blades clanged and locked against each other, but this time, something was off. For her maneuver, Adora had compromised her footing; her opponent noticed and made her pay dearly for it, delivering a strong kick to her own legs while their arms and blades were locked together above.

Adora groaned and fell backwards onto the ground, though she was able to roll out of the way just as the Phase Sword plunged into the ground where she had been just milliseconds earlier, cracking the cement floor and throwing up a plume of dust. Part of her cape too was caught in the way of the blade, and was sliced clean off, but Adora paid no heed to this. In a split second she was back on her feet, and had brought Margaithann up in time to block her attacker's next assault.

Most of her attention was on her opponent, but Adora also tried to quickly scan the her surroundings, desperately looking for any way to leverage the environment around her to her favor... _the Vault was sprawling and cavernous, rows upon rows of steel shelving reaching up to the cycling, stacks of cardboard boxes, wooden crates, and shipping containers. Her mind, through the Warp, could catch glimpses here and there of their contents. Some of these deceptively plain-looking vessels concealed within them powerful items - talismans and other trinkets that resonated strongly with the Warp. She reckoned some of those artifacts must have belonged to... HIM..._

The Assassin crouched and then leapt with such force that she went sailing through the air, spinning several times in midair with her blade outstretched, like a whirring buzzsaw. To any normal Mon'Keigh who might have been watching their battle, the two gladiators danced and ducked and dived with such ferocity so as to appear a blur of limbs and blades. The shrieks and crackles that echoed out every time the two swords connected seemed to coalesce into one long, continuous piercing wail, drowning out all other sounds - the swoosh of blades cutting through air, the cries and grunts as both warriors exerted themselves to the max, and, at least to Adora's ears, the background rumbling of the Warp...

 _...there was no telling how some of the artifacts stored here might react if she tried to interface with them. Especially if some of these did indeed belong to Him. She looked away from these and tried to examine the more mundane items stored alongside them. As far as she could tell, there were all manner of weapons and other machine pieces to be found here - jet engines, a prototype jet pack, whole missiles albeit with the warheads removed, and even the components for what looked like some failed and ill-advised Mon'Keigh attempt to build a working battlefield robot. But apart from that, not much else - no fuel, no live ammunition, no propellants, no liquid oxygen, nothing she could improvise a secondary weapon or even just a distraction out of on the fly..._

The Assassin leapt and spun and twirled in a manner perhaps better suited to a Druidian ballet dancer than any Mon'Keigh Adora had ever seen before - that "close encounter" from last year could not compare, not even close. Adora was struggling just to keep up, unable to find any opening to land even a glancing blow. There might have been a time she could fight psychomatrons head-on back in the Rebellion, but those years were behind her; right now, she was tired, exhausted, years out of practice, and still in pain. She could see why, in that grim and hopeless future many thousands of years from now, operatives like this one were so lethally adept at exterminating her kind, like they were less the superior and beautiful beings they truly were, and more like mere vermin to be squashed underfoot.

 _...even a few shards of wraithbone stripped off from the hull of the_ Druhk Eshaiir _would have been useful for her to have right now - something she could have quickly shaped into something useful with minimal effort - but there were none to be found here. The Mon'Keigh must have been storing those pieces at their other facilities around the country, like the one they called Area 51..._

With each swing, her sword seemed to shift color, the ancient runes etched flashed and glowed, and the great soulgem delicately inlaid into its hilt flushed with color, but now all of these with greater intensity than before; it was as if Margaithann itself were speaking to her, trying to warn her. Something did not feel right. Well, many things did not feel right - the abdominal pain, the throbbing in her head, the numerous warnings her helmet display now flashed before her eyes, and then there was...

 _...Area 51... that name made her mind conjure unpleasant images. She could see, in black and white, Amalthea lain down flat, her eyes still wide open, but now so too was her chest, spilling all of her insides out onto the table. Mon'Keigh in white labcoats and masks swarmed around her like mangy scavengers, poking and prodding away with little regard for the dead. More images now, of the rest of her crew, all in similar states of dismemberment - Tygra, the Twins, Taarna, Jenn, even Kringer. No. Not Kringer! They were chopping him open like he was little more than cattle butchered for meat..._

"Argh!" cried Adora as she felt another sharp sting. Her mind was clouded, and she had let her guard down; only for a split second, but her opponent did not forgive her for it. She managed to recover, twist her body out of the way, and block, but for one brief opening. There was a slash in her left arm, just below the elbow; blood began to gurgle and gush, dripping down her hand.

That was it. Adora did not know whether it was the agony in her belly, or her arm, or the vision reminding her the fate of her true companions. Margaithann lit up, a channel for the raw power of the Warp, and of the lord she served. Her bloody left hand clenched into a fist and crackled with lightning.

The Assassin had fought psychic foes before and knew how to recognize and dodge their attacks, and she did just that, but there was one part of her that did not get out of the way in time: her hair. Filled with fire and fury, Adora reached out through the Warp, grabbed onto that single long braid protruding from the back of her head, and pulled. Pulled with such force that the Assassin was lifted swiftly and bodily into the air, and flew off to the side.

Her enemy's body was slammed into the nearest row of shelves, smashing into a crate with such force that the box shattered. Pieces of wood, dust, circuitry, and metallic machine parts scattered everywhere - probably the parts for yet another pointless expenditure of the American taxpayer's dollars, but Adora cared nothing of it. Effortlessly, she picked up another crate full of maybe another few million of dollars worth of R&D, and hurled it at her opponent. It crashed and broke apart, though the Assassin had managed to roll out of the way in time to avoid being crushed.

"YOU. _BITCH!_ " she roared, like a woman possessed, "I WILL FUCKING END YOU!"

* * *

"You hear that?" asked Officer Hightower, "what's that noise?"

Officer Powell didn't reply, but kept his grenade launcher trained forward. God, who knew the Pentagon would turn out to be like some damn iceberg, with most of it underground? Up ahead was a narrow steel door, like the entrance to some bunker, "101" stenciled across its front. It was wide open, and the sounds, like some freaky _Star Wars_ lightsaber duel from hell, were emanating from within.


End file.
